To be a man of Iron
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: Tony Stark, Director of SHIELD, Iron Man - family man. A few years in the future, Tony struggles to balance his responsibilities, while his son, Steven, tries to find a place in the world. PART 2 - a boy sees something he shouldn't.
1. PART 1: Five years old: Iron Man dad

_Author's Notes:_

_I gotta admit: I've never been an Iron Man fan in my life - well, not until recently, at least._

_The whole thing started with New Avengers and Civil War, not even two years ago. You see, it's a very interesting thing indeed, because, before that, I was convinced I actually hated Iron Man. Being mostly a DC fan, my knowledge of the Marvel Universe barely covered the X-Men (I faithfully read the mutants saga for years before finally giving up on them about five years ago), and I looked at most Marvel heroes- with the honorable exception of Bendis's Daredevil - as just naive concepts that were still trapped in those old, old 60's version of colorful heroes. The whole idea of Iron Man, for example, I considered silly; and it puzzled me that this character survived until now._

_Well, summarizing the whole thing, I couldn't care less about Iron Man._

_But then... well, then came Civil War, and the New Avengers. I liked guys like Spiderman and Luke Cage (mostly because they've been around one of my favorite Marvel characters of all times, Daredevil), and I thought that a team that had them, plus Wolverine and Spiderwoman, would have to be good. And, well, it was. New Avengers was fun to read, and much less complicated (in a good way) than the JLA, for example. Not so much heavy drama, good stories, good art. I enjoyed the ride. And, as a side effect, I started to pay attention to the character of Tony Stark._

_You see, I've always been a big Batman fan - and most definitely still am -, and it would be silly to deny that Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne have much in common. But, you see, if you look at Iron Man in search of a Marvel equivalent of Batman, you'll be disappointed. No, not disappointed: you'll be surprised. Although with much in common - rich, brilliant, bossy, complicated -, they've also developed, in all these years, very differently. Where Batman turned into a very introspective character, Tony Stark became... well, a man of the world._

_Not to say that Iron Man isn't a character with many layers; he is. However, and Civil War has the merit of showing it, Tony Stark is a very out there kind of guy, and one that has transcendent his role of masked hero in a very particular way. Not only a symbol, but a man of actions. In or out of his armor, Tony Stark, always with his mind set into the business of saving the world..._

_Approving his ways or not (and sometimes I don't, but I guess that's just the point), I've come to really like this character - this must have something to do with the good work of writers like Warren Ellis, Charlie and Daniel Knauf, and Brian Michael Bendis -, and I feel that, now more then ever, there are many, many things to be said about him, and many stories to be told. What will Marvel do about it, I don't know, but I felt that it would be fun to write a story featuring Iron Man, and, so far, it has indeed been a good experience._

_About this story in particular, I just would like to say that, although it's not terribly original, I hope it can be interesting. Obviously, the story is set years in the future from now - Tony as Director of SHIELD, registration, Maya Hansen... if you read it, you know the deal. This, I hope, will provide a few references that will be interesting for actual fans and readers, but it also gives me freedom to be less worried about storyline, and stuff like that. And it might allow that those people who don't read comics, but like the character, enjoy a story that is not so worried about details from Iron Man's history. I'm hoping, however, I'll be able to be faithful to the vital things that have made Tony Stark, well, Tony Stark._

_That's all, I guess. I hope you enjoy the story, and I'm hoping for reviews. Have a good reading!_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

_P.S.: If it is not obvious enough, then I'll say it... Characters from Marvel Universe don't belong to me, but to, believe it or not, Marvel! And, of course, they didn't give me permission to use these characters, but, since I make no money of this story, I'm hoping they don't mind me borrowing them._

* * *

"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,  
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,  
If all men count with you, but none too much:  
If you can fill the unforgiving minute  
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,  
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,  
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!"

**Rudyard Kipling, in his poem "If"  
**

* * *

**PART I**

**Five years old: Iron Man dad**

Tony could remember having quite a few tough nights in his life, but, in all honestly, he had never been through one that had demanded so much of him – and still did.

It was almost midnight when all started.

Maya was deeply asleep, her head resting over his chest while they laid on their bed. An ordinary, uneventful Saturday night; something indeed so rare in his daily life that his wife thought he was joking when he suggested they went out for dinner, just the two of them. The shock over, Maya had been more than happy to oblige Tony's invitation, and they spend the following couple hours talking, laughing, eating Thai food and drinking wine – her, not him. They had a great time: he was actually pleasantly surprised to notice that, when they finally left the restaurant, he hadn't thought about _work_ for a single second, even forgetting to connect to the SHIELD's database of vigilance to check on things, like he habitually did every hour.

The wine did wonders for Maya's humor and disposition, and she barely waited for Tony to close the apartment's door before sliding out of her dress and pulling him to bed. He didn't need an invitation, and gladly accepted the way she took over the situation – he was so tired of always being _the_ man in charge in just about everything else in his life. Disposed of his clothes, he closed his eyes and relaxed, doing his best to focus in nothing but his wife's tender kisses over the skin of his chest and stomach, her gentle, skillful fingers caressing his thighs, her soft body over his.

So relaxed and focused he was that he missed the first signs.

It was only then, with Maya sleeping, that he reconnected with the database… and found out it was a mess.

"Tony?" She sat on the bed, the silk sheet doing a poor job in covering her nudity. "Are you going out?"

He was already in his armor, and the wide open window that lead to the terrace was an obvious sign of what was about to follow. Still, he did his best to sound calm and secure, hoping that the reassurance in his voice would keep him from betraying his true feelings.

"Yes." He sighed, but the armor played its part by concealing it. "There's an emergency… a _situation_."

"Situation? What sort of…?"

"Nothing to worry about, I hope." That was a lie, plain and simple, but he was pretty sure that the truth wouldn't be very helpful either – if anything, it would only be a source of preoccupation for her. "Look, we have problems in the Helicarrier, and I have to see about that…"

"Now?"

"I'm afraid so."

She looked down to her own naked body, so disappointed and frustrated that Tony wished he could just let go of everything to simply remain there and console her. Things weren't so simple, though.

"Do you think you'll be back soon?" She stared straight at his mask, searching for his eyes. "I was hoping we could talk about… well…"

"About what?"

"It doesn't matter. We talk when you get back."

"Alright." He examined her features, thinking of how much she differed from the woman that, half an hour ago, he was, over that very same bed, making love to; that woman, he recalled, was passionate in her gestures, secure of herself, her eyes darting in desire, her skin flushing under his touch. This woman… this woman was naked in every sense; her body and her eyes, windows to her inner thoughts, to the musings that rolled in her mind. Before, she had given herself unrestrictedly. Now, she retreated to a place he always felt it was so hard for him to reach. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Good."

"Yes." Clearing his throat, he faked a casual tone to say what he had been planning to ever since the conversation began. "I'm leaving you and Stevie under surveillance…"

"Surveillance?"

"SHIELD Agents. Nothing to worry about…"

"Bodyguards? Tony, what's going on?!?"

"Look", he wished to hold her hand between his, but, considering he was wearing a thick armor of cold metal, he didn't much see the point; "it's a _precaution_, that's all."

She didn't answer; her eyes glanced coldly at him, a look he knew too well: a silent disapproval, and anger flashing behind her eyes. _She thinks I'm lying_, he realized.

"Honestly, Maya; I don't know what's happening, and I will only know more if I get to the Helicarrier. You know that, you've worked in SHIELD... and you know you'll be in good hands."

"I know, Tony." Her tone was dry and harsh, but she at least didn't seem to disagree.

"Okay." Already hovering a few inches over the floor, he still hesitated. He needed, he _desperately _needed to leave, but something anchored him there; not a specific thing, but a whole bunch of small things. Images clanged to his mind: to kiss Maya's front, to caress Stevie's head. How long since he had done that?

"Go, Tony." There wasn't anger in her voice; there was conformation, and her attempt of showing, in the best way she could under the circumstances, support. "Just be careful, okay?"

"Always", he said before turning around and leaving through the window.

* * *

Mom said he was a good boy for being so patient, but Stevie knew that was just one of those things she would say to keep him calm. 

"You're such a brave boy, Stevie...! Such a brave boy...!" She held him close to her body, her arms tight around him as she carried him through the elaborated net of subterranean tunnels that would take them away from home. "Daddy will be so proud..."

Stevie said nothing, aware that his mother's words were not meant to be a topic of conversation, but rather something to distract them from the frightfulness of the situation. In truth, Stevie wasn't sure about what was going on - it was bad, he knew this much -, and so he retreated to a state of mute observation.

Just minutes ago he was soundly asleep, safe and secure in his own bed; he was even dreaming, dreaming about strange things: a man with red eyes, and another one that wore a very unusual metal mask. In his dream, the boy remembered, the men were talking... talking about something big, about something bad. They planned to do bad things - things that would hurt many people, that would destroy many places, that would harm familiar faces... even his dad.

He woke up willing to cry and call for his mother, but there was no time: he opened his eyes to a world of fire and destruction.

Through the curtains of his bedroom's window he saw red shadows of the burning city outside; flames and smoke curling around his father's building, and sudden explosions that flashed outside like fireworks in the Fourth of July. The walls trembled. The floor trembled. There were only distant sounds: glass and walls in his dad's building were soundproof, he knew that much. _This is the safest place in the world_, dad used to say. _Nothing can hurt you in our home. I promise._

Stevie left his bed and approached the window; the night shone, so much fire and light that he had to protect his eyes from the brightness outside. Planes flew. _Jets_, he knew, S.H.I.E.L.D. Jets like he had seen so many times when he visited dad's office; they flew so low, so close, so near his window that he figured... with the window open, he could even reach his arm and touch them.

He touched the glass instead, feeling the usual warmth of the controlled temperature environment. Things down there, in the city, looked messy, chaotic - his father hated when the city was like that, and Stevie could even picture him right now: stern, serious, frowning and dictating orders in a whirlpool of words.

The boy, however, couldn't help but to think that it was a beautiful, beautiful night.

Reaching for the electronic lock, he did the same thing he had, in secret, done so many times before. His hand over the hidden circuit, he could easily picture it in his mind, much like he had pictured his dad seconds ago, or dreamed about those strange people. It was simple; so simple, and yet, so special. He knew, he knew for sure that people would make a big deal out of it, and he knew his parents would worry. He had seen - on TV, on the newspapers, in the conversations mom and dad had when they thought he wasn't listening - how ordinary people felt about special people, and he wasn't very anxious to see it happening to himself.

He knew he shouldn't do it, but the city outside... he felt attracted to it. He wanted more than just see it: he wanted to feel it. Listen, smell it, touch it.

He had to.

_Click_, sang the lock.

And the window's glass, at the slightest touch, slid open in perfect complicity.

A brutal wave of hot air invaded the room, the distinct smell of burning fire and dense smoke, befuddling, high-pitched, turbulent sounds, an indistinct commotion; light and brightness, an abrupt conflagration... and a jet. One of the jets, the roaring voice of its engine, so close, so close, so fast, a continuous, gorgeous lightning and its inseparable thunder.

He was pushed back a few steps, his eyes suddenly forced shut; too much, it was too much...! Noises, feelings, lights: his mind was overwhelmed by an uninterrupted flow of images, faces, voices. Pain and torment, panic, fear... there was so much of it outside, and, now, there was so much of it inside - inside his home, inside his room, and within himself.

"Mom!", he screamed.

Raising his eyes to the window again, he saw the purple sky turning red; there were flashes and explosions all around, and, down bellow, the affliction of some. Red, red, the sky turned red, a crimson night, and the walls and floor shook like they had never before.

And he saw the jet, a huge, real-life jet, a wing cracked like it was made of paper, the plane spinning and falling, and it could be nothing but a giant toy tossed away by a very angry child - and yet, it wasn't.

The aircraft swung out of control, in what seemed an endless collection of flips; it got closer, closer, closer, so near, so perfectly aimed to his bedroom's window that the boy couldn't help wondering if it wasn't on purpose. It was coming that way, he realized, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

Stevie closed his eyes, and waited for that final moment.

* * *

He woke up in the darkness, all so silent and calm that he again wondered if it wasn't all a dream - dreams within dreams, it had happened to him before. 

"Hi, baby...!"

His mother's voice was a sobbing whisper, his words said in a mellow, beholden tone. She held him near her chest, his head resting on her forearm, much like she would do when he was no more than a toddler. Her face was wet, her eyes teary beyond what the darkness could conceal.

"You're okay, honey... you're okay..." Lowering her head to kiss her son's forehead, she allowed herself a moment of release: sobs grew in her chest, and she freed those incarcerated emotions out of her. The sobs evolved into a persistent, spasmodic cry, and she convulsively grasped the child in her arms, her face pressed against his, cold sweat and warm tears between mother and son.

"Mrs. Stark", said a grave, masculine voice coming from somewhere in the darkness. "We need to keep moving, madam."

She didn't immediately respond to that statement, but her sobbing gradually slowed down; caressing her son's cheek, her physiognomy still bearing a peculiar combination of gratitude and consternation, she nodded in agreement:

"I know, agent." There was exasperation in her tone. "But _my son_ has just been returned from the dead...! You do understand if I take a moment to appreciate it, don't you?!?"

The sound of steps and the pale luminescence of a flashlight revealed more about the place: a dark tunnel, it seemed, of solid steel and narrow space. Mother sat on the cold floor, tenaciously embracing him, and now looked up to the people around them; half a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents, who stared at the boy with expressions that could be described as something between amazement and shock.

"Ma'am", the Agent insisted, now offering a hand as support, "please, we must go!"

She accepted the assistance, permitting the Agent to firmly grab her by the arms and help her to stand on her feet. An almost inaudible groan escaped through her lips, and the boy didn't miss it; he lifted his eyes to exam his mother's features, noticing the small, but numerous lacerations on the right side of her face. There was blood, dry blood through her dark hair, and much of it on her clothes and hands. She breathed heavily, and her steps faltered, occasionally stumbling, as she struggled to keep up with the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents sturdy pace.

"Mom", he said, adjusting himself in her arms as he circled his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist. He spoke near her right ear, the unpleasant smell of blood clinging on his nostrils:

"You're_hurt_!"

His words carried both amazement and apprehension, feelings born from the fact that he had never seen his mother injured or sick. She was in pain, he knew that much; her heart pounded in hurry and fury, and he could feel it perfectly while resting his head against her chest. She was tired, tired and scared, and that, the boy found out, would scare him too.

"Baby, I'm fine..." She kissed him again. "I'm fine, okay? I promise..."

"Mrs. Stark, ma'am", a young agent that walked side by side with mother and child suddenly spoke, "if you wish, I can carry the boy, ma'am; we'll get there faster if..."

"No", she stated, not even giving herself time to consider the offer.

"Please, Mrs. Stark." Now it was another agent speaking, the one that had helped her stand up. "We should hurry. It seems that things are pretty ugly outside, and the Director is anxiously waiting..."

"Screw_the Director_!" His dad was the Director, Stevie knew; and mom seemed to be really mad with him. "The hell with him, if he can't be here for us now...!"

There was a moment of solemn and uncomfortable silence, and nothing could be heard but the heavy steps on the metallic floor.

"I'm sure he wanted to be here, ma'am", it was the younger Agent talking again, now in hesitant, timid words; they also carried, however, a subtle undertone that denounced his outrage. "But Director Stark has many things to look over, and the situation..."

"You silly kid", mother simply said.

"Ma'am?"

"You don't know Tony, agent... you think he doesn't know what's happening here? Or anywhere else in this godforsaken town?!?"

The young agent seemed puzzled, but he was alone in his confusion; all the others just quietly marched, offering him no support or consolation.

"He knows, Agent. He knows what's happening... he knows what happened to Stevie... to _our_ son." She took a deep breath, her lips lightly brushing the soft skin of her son's cheek. Her words were a faint whisper: "And yet, he didn't come."

"Yes, but..." He wasn't ready to give up the argument, but was forced to silence by a gesture of his commander.

"What's wrong?" Mother nervously glanced around, the Agents surrounding them in a protective circle, their guns armed and ready, the flashlights turned off.

Darkness.

Stevie felt his own heart racing, and his body was suddenly taken by unexplainable tremors; somewhere in the shadows, he knew, someone was watching.

"It's all right, Mrs. Stark." The commander lowered his nigh vision goggles, and risked two steps out of the circle. "We had a strange reading, that's all; the radar points to a source of heat here, but there's noth..."

A hollow sound, a sudden burst of light, and the agent fell to the ground, his body disturbingly silent and stiff.

"Oh, God...", Stevie heard from his mother; the clasp of her arms around him got tighter, her fingers tensely pressing the skin of his back. "What's happening...?!?"

Bright flashes of gunshots illuminated the tunnels, a confusion of sounds as the plasma projectiles hit the iron walls in loud bangs. "Captain!", screamed one of the agents.

"There! There!" One of the bodyguards shot at what seemed to be just an empty space in the darkness.

"Stop it! Calm down, Hyker! You'll end up shooting your own foot... or worst." A female agent kneeled next to the unconscious body of the Captain, one hand on her gun, the other on the man's neck. "He's still alive... but looks like he was hit on his head... hard!"

The boy firmly enlaced his mother's neck with both arms, holding on her in sturdy determination. "Mom...", he whispered, "we have to _go_!"

"Stevie... baby..." Tears were again coming down her cheeks, and she blinked repeatedly while trying to make anything of the darkness around them. "Listen: if something happens to me..."

"No!" Closing his eyes, he sheltered his face on the curve of his mother's neck.

"_Yes_, baby. I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Stevie... but if mom can't protect you, you'll just have to keep running, okay?"

"Lieutenant", the agent named Hyker called, "Lieutenant, I'm getting something!"

The Lieutenant - precisely the female agent that was checking on the Captain's vitals - quickly stood up, rifle ready, the scanner she took from the blacked out superior officer now connected to her own goggles. She carefully looked around, slowly, attentively, never leaving the tight circle the bodyguards had formed around Stevie and his mother; then, with a cautious hand gesture, she signed orders to the others.

"What...? What's going on...?" The officers approached the boy and his mother.

"Please, Mrs. Stark", said a now resolute, pale young agent, whose eyes shone and sparkled with a silver light. His following words, Stevie realized, were not spoken, but silently projected in his mind. _"Don't worry, kid; we'll take you out of here, and you'll be with your dad soon."_

There was a noise, now obvious to all, the sound of steps - so very close to them. "Now!", screamed the Lieutenant, and she shot at the thing that none of them could actually see. One of the agents grabbed Stevie's mother by the arm, pulling her away from the others: "Let's go, ma'am", he said just as he forced her to run, one hand on her back, a worried, yet concentrated expression as he looked over his shoulder. "They'll cover our escape", whispered the agent, more hopeful than actually certain.

Shots burst and cracked, and they covered the sounds of their steps as they ran away. _"Left! Left!"_ It was the Lieutenants's voice; _"It's invisible, Lieutenant, it's invi..."_ That was Hyker, and he was suddenly silenced. _"There's a force field, we can't..."_

They ran, and the screams and shots were left behind.

But not the danger, Stevie knew.

"What the hell is happening...?" Mom's voice was a tired, horrified murmur.

"I don't know, ma'am." The agent slowed his pace, putting himself a few steps behind mother and son; his rifle armed, he used the flashlight on it to search the path behind them. There was nothing there - still, Stevie felt a cold shiver run up his spine.

"Mom", his voice muffled as he spoke with his face still enshroud on her collar-bone, "don't let her take me..."

She moved her head as to look directly at her son. "Honey, what' you talking about?"

Sighing, he shifted on her arms, brushing his face on her shoulder and turning his glance away from her. "I'm tired", he simply stated, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I know, baby. I know." Kissing the back of his neck, she took a moment to rest her bruised, wet cheek on her son's warm, soft skin. "It will be alright... Just a little longer... you have to hang on just for a bit longer, okay?"

"And dad will come." His tone was definitive.

"And dad will come." She took a deep breath, and suffocated a groan of pain; more and more she limped, and didn't seem able to keep running. "You've been so brave... Do you know that? You're such a brave boy, Stevie...! Such a brave boy...! Daddy will be so proud..."

"Mrs. Stark?" The agent watched her with an intrigued expression. "Are you all right?"

Her words came choked and hard:

"I think you'll have to take him, Agent."

"I'll be glad to, ma'am." He put his gun to rest, and stretched an arm in Stevie's direction.

"Mom..." The boy was about to protest, his arms firmly clasped around his mother's neck, when a transparent, almost indiscernible surface was suddenly put between them; impossibly hard, unexpected, and an expression of pure energy, it's presence violently repealed both the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent and the boy's mother, the first being abruptly thrown against the wall behind him, while Mrs. Stark was pushed back and down, falling to the floor with such impact that she even let escape a painful cry.

Stevie, however, saw himself hovering five feet above the floor, invisible walls entrapping him in a tight, uncomfortable cage. His heart jumped inside his chest, and his body trembled out of control; for as extraordinary as the situation was, force fields and light manipulation were just too familiar for him to ignore what was about to come.

His mother - her nose bleeding profusely, her left shoulder insinuating itself in a disturbing angle towards her body - was the first to say it out loud:

"Sue...?", she asked in a tone that evidentiated her disbelief; her eyes focused on the slender figure that now stood a few feet from them, a blond, gorgeous woman in a black and blue outfit, an insignia that had a very distinctive number four on her chest. "My God... Sue, was that you...? All along...?"

That was Aunt Susan - how Stevie used to call her - and yet, it wasn't. The same appearance, same powers, all the same... except for what was inside.

Except for _who_ was in charge.

"Why' you doing this, Sue?" Mother forced herself to move, gasping in pain just for raising her upper body. Her question, words struggling to come out, was however made in a strong, audible tone, her voice echoing in the unending net of tunnels.

Still, Susan didn't answer; in fact, she didn't even seem to have listened.

A brief hand gesture moved Stevie's prison closer to Sue, the cold walls pressuring the boy into a small space, restricting his movements to the point where he could do nothing but to curl up and remain immobile. Unable to think of anything he could do, and feeling completely helpless, the boy simply cried.

And indistinct moan came from the corner where the fallen agent laid; now awaken, and precariously standing on his feet, the man had his gun pointed at an inexpressive, aphasic Susan.

"Let the boy go, freak!" Though his body trembled, his rifle was perfectly steady as it aimed for the blond woman. "Release him, or, swear to God, I _will_ shoot!"

Sue slowly turned her head at his direction, vaguely acknowledging him. Mom, who had now managed to seat on the floor, her back leaning on the tunnel wall - and tears just ran down her cheek, her left arm strangely pending from her body, a lifeless limb that simply didn't seem to belong to her anymore -, watched the scene in profound confusion and disbelief, her eyes displaying a striking terror. Her voice a weak murmur, she pled:

"_Please_, Sue... Please, don't take my son...!"

The agent's voice raised above that:

"Let him go now! It's my final warning!"

Susan stared at the agent, a blank expression in her face. For the man, it was enough:

"Monster..." He pressed the trigger, and a continuous bust of shots flew at Sue. Sound and light filled the tunnel, and, in his prison, Stevie shut his eyes; there was a very strange, confusing world out there, he thought, and it would be so much better if he would never have to face it again.

"No!", mom screamed.

"Be quiet", said Aunt Susie's hollow, cold voice. Then, the sound of someone coughing, soon followed by nervous, agonizing gasps of someone struggling to breath. _Mom!_, Stevie anxiously thought, now forcing his eyes wide open, despite all the fear; he searched for her, and found his mother still in the same spot, teeth clenched, an horrified look in her eyes. "Mom", he called, his own voice smothered by the force prison - and behind him, the choking sounds turned into low, painful moans, accompanied by the disturbing noises of something cracking.

And then, silence.

"Stevie, don't look!"

He didn't have to look to know what had just happened, but he obediently closed his eyes.

"Sue", he heard mother say, her voice overflowing with despair and supplication, "I'm begging you: don't take Stevie! Please, please, Sue...! This... this is not you...!"

There was no answer.

"You're Susan Storm", mom proceeded, and now there was a tactful insinuation of hope in her tone. "You have children too, do you remember? Franklin... and Valeria. Your children... that you love very much..."

Sue remained mute and immobile, apparently affected by the speech Stevie's mother was carefully delivering.

"Franklin and Valeria... you wouldn't want to see them harmed, would you? I... I don't want my son hurt, Sue, that's all. So, if you need to take someone... take me. I'll go with you."

"Must take the boy", Susan said, her voice as mechanical as any of the many A.I.s daddy had in their home.

"No, you don't. You don't, Sue; really. You can take me... and let him be. They will hurt him, Sue. You know that, don't you?" The urge in her tone was pure anguish. "Please, Susan! Please! You can't do that... you are a _hero_...!"

That last word was a mistake, and Stevie could sense it even during that second of silence that preceded Susan's reaction. "Mom, _run!_", he yelled, but it was already too late; she was hurt, and she had no way of protecting herself - not to mention, she would never be able to leave him.

"Be quiet", Sue simply ordered.

And Stevie closed his eyes, hoping that all could just be over soon.

One way or the other.


	2. PART 1: Five years old: hurt like

_Here's chapter two. It's still Part 1, but chapter two, or the second part of Part 1... it's not too confusing, is it? _

_Anyway, this one takes from where the last chapter left, but with a little more of Tony Stark. The situation is difficult, things will get hard... This one has more action too, I think. _

_You might get a little confused about a thing or two, but I ask for your patience; before the story ends, things will be clear (it may take a while for the story to end, but...)._

_I apologize for my grammar mistakes, and I hope to get feedback on that; English is my second language, so you might see a few silly mistakes - for that I'm sorry, and I'm trying to correct them._

_Finally, thank you Oracle and Cat 2 for your nice reviews; please, keep reading, yor words made me a very happy writer._

* * *

**PART 1**

**Five years old: hurt like a grown up**

He kneeled close to the extensive pool of dark, crimson liquid on the floor, and reached one of his gloved hands to touch it.

"Armor", he commanded.

Naturally, he received an answer. _"Running Analyses"_, said the emotionless, steady voice. _"Preliminary Results: approximately six hundred milliliters of human blood; blood type: O positive; indication of human tissue among the sample; run DNA search?"_

He swallowed the unusual excess of saliva in his mouth, his throat constrict to a point he thought he wasn't going to make it: "Yes, please."

_"Match"_, announced the armor, and, in the solitude of his concealed features, he closed his eyes and held his breath. _"Stark, Steven Anthony; five years, four months, eleven days old; estimated height: 45 inches; estimated weight: 44 pounds; alert: massive blood loss; alert: massive damage to sample tissue; alert: cranial bone fragments..."_

"Enough", he said, the word a hollow sound, spoken in a defeated tone. Of all things, that was what he had feared the most: signs that his child was hurt... perhaps dead.

"Tony", a feminine voice called him, a hand over his shoulder.

"I'm fine, Carol." He stood up, immediately commanding his armor to hover a few feet over the ground. "Let's go."

She flew by his side, shoulder to shoulder, glancing at him in dubiety:

"If you need a break..."

"I need to keep going. It's what I _need_ to do."

She silently stared at him, studying his armored self like in search for a display of emotion - a vain hope. Then, turning to face the net of intricate tunnels ahead, she just stated:

"We'll find them, Tony. We will."

In his armor, he expressed a brief, faint smile; it was a good thing that he wasn't doing that alone, after all.

_"Life-forms ahead"_, his armor announced. _"Estimated distance: two hundred feet."_ A map of the tunnels popped in one of his virtual screens, the escape routes under Stark Tower that Tony had projected himself; it was supposed to be the safest place in the entire city, almost a mile below surface, walls reinforced with ten inches steel plaques, protected with all sorts of devices that wouldn't allow any kind of detection but from his most personal and secretive inventions. A complicated net of passages, with a thousand possibilities - and only one trail that would lead to the outside again -, the chances that someone but the very few Tony had allowed to know the place could find their way in there, or even manage to follow his wife and her bodyguards was really out of the charts.

And yet, as he saw the readings of his armor, that seemed to be precisely the case.

"Detailed readings", he asked.

_"Processing."_ The images danced around Tony, indistinct shapes turning into more explicit silhouettes. _"Five subjects; Captain Hawllet, Duncan, mission commander, Field Agent, security-clearance Level Six; Lieutenant Nash, Catherine Jane, Field Agent, security-clearance Level Five; Lieutenant Pacheco, Enrique, Field Agent, security-clearance Level Four; Agent Hyker, Graham Scott, Psi-Division, security-clearance Level Four; Agent Stoner, James Richard, Psi-Division, security-clearance Level Three; status: all subjects unconscious." _

"We might run into trouble, Carol." Accelerating his flight, he lead the way through a side-passage, his mind trying to work out an explanation for what he was seeing: his S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents overthrown, his wife and son missing, his secret emergency escape route invaded - who could have accomplished all that?

"No kidding! Trouble? That would be something new..."

"Just be careful."

It was only seconds before they reached the place where the Agents laid still, the five of them spread across and along the tunnel among the signs of a ferocious battle.

"Oh, my God..." Carol landed next to the young man Tony knew to be Agent James Stoner, who was now a sprawled, immobile body that seemed to have been dropped there in a very uncomfortable, even ludicrous pose; his left leg hanged from his hips in a strange, precarious manner, a deep wound in his groin allowing the very unpleasant sight of his exposed femur; his left arm, in a strange symmetry, also seemed out of place: his forearm had been severed just bellow the elbow, in a clear, perfectly uniform cut, and it laid under him, his hand still firmly grasping the plasma rifle. It was a sad, painful picture, and more so because of this: his neck had been violently broken, unnaturally turned, and now, though lying on his belly, the terrified expression in the Agent's face could be seen, a striking despair, an unbearable pain, and the lack of hope.

"Yes", Iron Man agreed, gently floating over that site of horror spectacle; just a few feet ahead, he saw Lieutenant Nash. She was alive, told him the primary readings of his armor; but, also according the information that ran before his eyes, she would never be able to walk again - her spine had been damaged in at least four places, and it was just her luck that she was still breathing.

"What the hell happened here, Tony?!?"

"Wish I knew", he answered with sincerity. Agent Hyker and Captain Hawller were not far, and, in a lateral tunnel, Iron Man could recognize what probably were the remains of Lieutenant Pacheco's wracked corpse.

"Are they..." She gasped, the word coming out in a grasping tone. "... dead? All of them?"

"No. Not all." But that was no consolation. Those that were not simply dead, like Pacheco and Stoner, were in pretty bad shape; Nash had a broken spine, Hawller suffered a severe head trauma - there was no way of telling if they would pull through. The only one of them that seemed to be okay - despite several broken ribs, a concussion, and seriously injured legs - was Agent Hyker, whose psionic brain-waves readings where sky-high.

Approaching the Agent, Tony touched his neck. _"Pulse: 135 beats per minute; temperature: 104 F°; blood pressure: 145 systolic, 97 diastolic."_

"Armor", he said while gently removing the Agent's helmet and goggles, then placing both hands on the soldier's temples, "minor electric discharge..."

Carol shivered: "Tony, are you sure about thi..."

Sparkles of blue light came from Iron Man's glove, and the unconscious Agent convulsed on the floor, his head firmly held between Tony's electrified hands. "Oh, my...", Carol muttered, covering her mouth with both hands and turning away from what she apparently judged to be a disturbing sight.

"C'mon...", it was Tony pleading, just as he applied a second discharge at the man's temples.

Her eyes closed, Carol whispered: "Do you really have to do this?"

A weak, sour groan was the answer she got - supported by Iron Man's arms, Agent Hyker was now regaining conscience again.

"Easy, easy now..." Tony gently lift the man to put him in a seating position, and, one hand on his back, used the other to raise his own metallic mask, revealing his tired, grave face. "You're all right, soldier... you're okay..."

Hyker let escape a low grunt between his clenched teeth, his features assaulted by expressions that denounced his physical torment. Still, he opened his eyes and glanced around, never sparing himself from the horrible sight of his wounded and dead companions. He didn't show surprise, however, and his eyes soon met Tony's; trembling and babbling, he still managed to speak a few comprehensible words:

"She... attacked us, Dire... Director...! She fo... followed us... a... nd... did..."

"Sh, sh, it's okay. Don't push too hard..." He signed with his head pointing one of the backpacks, the one that had belonged to the now late Agent Pacheco, and Carol rushed to fetch it; there, guided by Tony, she found a metallic syringe, and handed it to him.

"What's that...?"

"Pain killers", he said just as he removed the needle's cap between his teeth and pierced Hyker's leg. "This will help him."

The effect seemed to be immediate: Hyker's features relaxed, and his anxious breathing assumed a steadier, slower pace.

"Is he going to be okay?" It was Carol whispering close to Tony's ears, watching in alarm as the Agent seemed to drift away again.

"He's gonna be fine..." Gently tapping the Agent's face, he called: "Graham... Hey, Graham...!"

"She's almost there, Director..." Hyker's eyes rolled back, his pupils hidden under his sore eyelids.

"Say that again, soldier."

"Director...!" Unexpectedly, he grasped Iron Man's left arm in his chafed fingers and draw a deep breath, the urgency in his voice seeming to exhaust those last resources of strength that kept him conscious; never the less, his eyes fluttering and his face losing all color, he spoke in a clear, hoarse tone. "She's taking the boy...! They told her to! She's taking him, and... and..."

"Who, soldier? Who is she?"

The Agent's eyes shut, but he managed to raise a hand and touch Tony's forehead with his index finger.

_The first to fall had been the young Stoner, who was hit with such force that he was thrown thirty feet away. The others watched helpless as his body was shaken from one side to the other, and their shots had no effect what so ever, bouncing on invisible walls that were suddenly around them. "Hold your fire!", the Lieutenant yelled, her eyes staring in shock as Stoner's neck snapped, broken by an invisible, mighty strength. "What's going on...", Pacheco said, but was interrupted when something sharp and indistinct hit his legs, causing him to fall on the ground and then pulling him to a side tunnel. Lieutenant Nash opened fire, shooting at something none of them could see: "Left, left...!" Hyker turned but dropped his gun, suddenly aware of what was happening. "It's invisible, Lieutenant, it's inv..." Something crushed his knee cap, and all turned into darkness before he could end his sentence, before he could tell them what he had just realized: it was the Invisible Woman; they were being attacked, they were being __killed__ by Susan Richards._

Tony gasped for air, emerging from the disturbing memories that had been abruptly injected in his mind. "Oh, no...!", he mumbled, his voice weakened by all the sensations that had invaded his body and that didn't actually belonged to him; the pain, the fear, the despair: all had been forced inside his mind, and, unfortunately, it just couldn't simply be forced out. _Armor close_, was his mind command, and his mask lowered again, its blessed virtual environment, his world, his inner world, and a place he had total control over – he needed to think, and there was no better refuge for him than that.

But Carol was there, and she had a grave look in her eyes. "What just happened?", she asked, mimicking his gestures when he finally laid Hyker back on the floor and stood on his feet.

He hesitated for a moment – _think, Tony, think!_ - before speaking:

"I'm not sure, but my best guess is that I've shared Hyker's memories about what happened in this tunnel."

"And...?"

"And it's bad, Carol... really bad." He was flying again, and turned to proceed on the way they had been following.

"Tony", she called, floating over the wounded Agent and looking down. "What about him...?"

"Them", he corrected. "I've send the coordinates for a rescue and medical team, they'll be here in three minutes."

Ms. Marvel glanced at the Agents with worry. "Think they'll be safe? I mean, whatever did this is still in those tunnels..."

"She..." He pursed his lips. "The _thing_ that did this is gone, Carol. They don't mean anything to... to whoever did this."

She didn't seem convinced. "How can you tell?"

"Must be because I'm a genius", he simply stated. Then, he accelerated his flight speed, knowing he had every reason to worry about his wife and son.

* * *

Aunt Sue walked in complete silence, never making a sound, but Stevie's mind was full of words. 

It had started the instant his mother stopped screaming, and the world outside his prison became dark and frightful. _"Come, boy, come to us...!"_ This one voice was hollow and distant, but it seemed to come from no where in particular - if anything, its source appeared to be Stevie's own mind.

Still, the boy couldn't conceive those words coming from him, that strange, creepy voice couldn't be part of him, just like those thoughts had to be from someone else. There where laughs, cruel laughs, that seemed to rejoice under the perspective that his mother, that _mom_ was hurt - maybe even dead, he wondered, his body shaking out of his control as a cold, dreadful feeling took him by assault.

And then there was dad, Iron Man, like the voice inside him resentfully called his father. _"It's his fault"_, the voice insisted, _"he abandoned us... and now mom is dead because of him."_ Did he?, Stevie asked himself; he wasn't so sure: somehow, he could envision his father and his armor, he could even see inside its strange, isolated virtual environment, with its many screens and tons of simultaneous information. And he was coming, the boy knew.

_"You're coming home, child"_, the voice told him. _"We are going home..."_ But Stevie didn't know if that was a good idea, since home, as the voice meant, didn't seem to be his room in dad's penthouse. Home, he realized, alien pictures and images traveling in front of his closed eyes, was a place engulfed in darkness, with solemn and long halls, a huge construction that had stone walls and heavy drapes on the windows that wouldn't allow any light in. It wasn't all bad, he had to agree with the voice; still, it wasn't home.

Besides, there was mom. He couldn't leave her, he just couldn't. The voice kept telling him she was dead, but... Stevie didn't believe it. If mom was dead, he considered, he would know it. _"Would you?"_ The malice in the question was obvious and poisonous, and the boy saw the undeniable cruelty in its tone.

He didn't worry much, though. Death didn't scare him much that night, he noticed. After all, he had died himself...

And that hadn't killed him.

* * *

"Tony!" 

It was Carol on the radio, and she sounded anxious in a way that concerned him. "On my way", he said, not bothering to ask her what was going on. He had suggested her to follow an alternative path, telling her he had caught readings that way - a lie, of course, but he didn't want Carol and Sue meeting, not yet; he hadn't decided what would be his course of action when he confronted Invisible Woman, but, considering he might be forced to use drastic measures, the last thing he needed was Carol in his way. He hoped that Ms. Marvel would spend considerable time searching the tunnels, enough time for him to catch up with Susan and, hopefully, his wife and son; against all odds, however, it seemed that Carol had had more luck than he did... if you could call luck the fact that you came upon a loved one seriously hurt.

Or worst.

He knew what she had found even before his armor begin to deliver data, and his conjectures weren't wrong; had it been Carol's tone, or the fact that he was starting to make sense of all that was happening, or perhaps something else - for all he had been through in his life, he would still be frequently faced by events and phenomenal that were, not rarely, beyond his comprehension -, Tony Stark, the Iron Man, knew that what he was about to see was something that, in truth, he could never prepare himself to. Despite the fact that he had lost so many people dear to him - parents, friends, lovers -, that was precisely the kind of event that he was bound to never accept.

"Tony..." Again Carol kneeled close to a broken, wretched body; a hand over her mouth, her shoulders trembling: she was a picture of grief - still, it wasn't to her that Iron Man turned his attention to.

_"Subject: Stark, Maya Hansen; unconscious; suffering from massive internal bleeding"_, was the diagnoses given by his armor. _"Punctured left lung, large pneumothorax; crushed trachea; acute respiratory failure. Additional information: seventh and eighth ribs of the left side shattered, left shoulder dislocated, right ankle severely sprained, several lacerations..."_

"Yes, yes, I can see!" Indeed he could, three-dimensional images of his wife's body floating over his eyes. He approached her by flying in great speed, quickly reaching to touch her bruised face. "Maya? Maya, can you hear me?"

"She's not breathing, Tony...!" Carol's voice was hoarse and faint, her eyes wide open, staring down at Maya in shocked disbelief.

"Damn it!"

There were marks around her neck, dark spots that denounced what was obvious: something had smashed her throat, perhaps in a violent blow that pushed her against the wall, and left her there to suffocate and die. To _suffocate_ and _die_. Alone, in the darkness of those tunnels, without pity, without any mercy...

_"Oh, Sue, what have you done?!?"_

"Carol, listen very carefully", he said, his voice in a solemn, severe tone that could be heard even through his voice modulator. "You have to take Maya to the doctors now, you hear me? If she doesn't get help in the next _minute_, she's not going to make it."

Ms. Marvel opened his mouth and was about to say something, but he interrupted her:

"There is no time to discuss. _Now_, Carol. The medical team is a mile behind us through this tunnel", he pointed one of the passages, "and you can reach them in thirty seconds if you fly fast - but not so fast as to hurt her, hear me?"

"Yes, Tony." She accepted in silence while Iron Man lifted his wife from the floor and gently lowered the severely injured woman in her arms.

"Go." His tone showed he wasn't open to discussions or questions, and Carol knew him well enough to recognize it. Turning her back on him, she left in anxious hurry. However, she still caught the last words he had for her, said in a supplicant, low voice:

"What ever you do, Carol, just don't let her die."

* * *

The voice continued to disturb him: 

_"Can you see it, child? Can you see all the beautiful things we have accomplished?"_

"Shut up!"

Stevie screamed in the solitude of his forcecage, hands over his ears, not caring for the fact that he was addressing an unknown interlocutor, talking to a voice that only he could hear.

"_The world is ours, child... Together... together we will rule over this Earth..."_

"No...", he moaned, a faint, weak word that escaped through his dry lips.

"_No one will be able to resist us. We'll be one: you and I, in one body, sharing the same flesh, the same blood. You will have the power; I will have my revenge...!"_

"No, no, no, no!" Now yelling in fury, he kicked and punched the invisible walls around him. They resisted, and he didn't expect anything different, but the wicked voice in his mind suddenly silenced.

Relief.

He opened his eyes, panting and sweating, and, despite the deep darkness that surrounded him, noticed that both his cage and his captor had suddenly stopped moving.

"Aunt Sue...?", he risked.

A pair of cold blue eyes turned to stare at him, no emotion what so ever in her features. Her glance was sharp, penetrating, and the intensity in it seemed increased by the fact that the forcecage was diminishing in a slow, yet steady rhythm. Robbing him of space and air, the walls enclosed around him, forcing his knees against his body, his back bending under the extreme push of the invisible tension. It begin to hurt, an agonizing crush, the sensation that a cold, huge hand was about to squeeze him without mercy. Amongst pain and angst, he sobbed in despair:

"I'm _sorry_...!"

He never knew if his apologies had any effect in Susan Richards; the next thing he saw – or barely saw, the lack of air and the pain making him so dizzy and confused – was a burst of clear light, a sparkling ray of intense power that cut through the darkness and hit his torturer in her thorax. Stevie felt the lack of support under his body, the invisible walls suddenly gone, cold air abruptly touching his bare skin; he fell. Five feet until his back met the metallic floor, a painful contact that darkened his vision for a second. He didn't faint, however; he couldn't, he wouldn't. He knew, he understood perfectly: that was his precious, probably unique chance to escape.

A gush of hot air and waves of bright luminescence engulfed him, and a shadow projected over him.

"Stevie. Stay behind me." Though grave and altered by the modulator in his armor, his father's voice was a great comfort.

Iron Man flew over Stevie's head, cautiously approaching Susan. Knocked out on the floor, her chest burned and wounded, she laid in abandon; blood poured from her injure, and she didn't seem to be breathing.

"Is she dead?", the boy asked, kind of surprised to realize that he felt pity for the woman that, only moments ago, had hurt him and his mother.

"No." Pointing the palm of his armored hand to Susan, a glowing, tangible white light projected in her direction, slowly covering her entirely. "Don't worry. I'll put a force field around her and she won't be able to harm you anymo…"

His father's words were suddenly cut by a strong, deafening thump, and the force field around Sue was obliterated in a blink.

"Damn it", Stevie heard his father curse. He reacted fast, however, quickly landing on the ground, the grip in his boots clanging to the metal of the floor, and immediately used his repulsors beams against the woman.

She seemed to be prepared for that now, and the ray found the invisible resistance of her shield; light sparkled and shone in the tunnel for a great distance, though the sound of those two immense forces clashing was nothing but the occasional noise of the metal plaques of the walls deforming under the heat and pressure of Tony's beam or Susan's shield.

"Sue", spoke Iron Man, his arms trembling as he maintained the ray in high potency and directed at his opponent, "_stop it_! It's me, Susan, Tony! Stop fighting me!"

She didn't react in anyway that suggested she had at least listened his words; wounded, bleeding, forcing her powers to her limits – despite all that, there was no sign that she would stop fighting until her last breath. In fact, she wasn't just resisting: slowly, inch by inch, her invisible shield seemed to advance towards Tony.

"Dad!" Stevie felt the growing heat getting closer and closer, watching his father's ankles shake as he firmly resisted Susan's approach. The intense light hurt his eyes, and he put a hand over his face to protect them, still trying to see between his fingers: it was scary, dreadful, a true nightmare… and he just couldn't take his eyes from it.

"Stay back, Stevie." Iron Man's tone was firm and resolute, even calm, though now his entire body was being pushed back, the scratching noise of his metal boots on the floor sounding like an agonizing plea for mercy; to his son, the words sounded like an order. Stevie understood: his father couldn't hold Aunt Sue for much longer, and he would have to do _something_ about that. He would have to use more power, he would have to be stronger, he would have to use his last resources.

His father was going to _kill_ Susan Richards.

In the depths of the boy's mind, a cruel laugh showed that someone, somewhere, smiled and rejoiced.

"Don't do it, Sue; don't force my hand!" The brightness in the tunnels was intense and uncomfortable, and Stevie had to look away; a few steps ahead, his father seemed to have reached his limit, and now his mechanically disguised voice sounded both furious and wretched: "_You!_ You, the one doing this to her, whoever you are…! I'll _find_ you, and I'll make you _pay_ for what you're making me do…!"

There was a distinctive sound, something like a shrill, a brief and piercing sound – and that couldn't be a good thing.

"I'm sorry, Susan", his father apologized; in his mind, Stevie heard an unpleasant smirk of triumph that disgusted him to no end. The boy felt his eyes misting, and a strangled sob escaped his constricted throat. "No…", he moaned; and then, a laudable protest, a cry spoken through clenched teeth, a denial made in rage and rebellion: "_No!_"

And darkness engulfed them all.

* * *

"_What did just happen?"_

Seconds ago he was about to use his concussion blast on Susan, except that he would do it in the maximum potency he could: it would be like dropping two tons of solid cement on her head, and not even her force shield could completely protect her from that – unfortunately, no one could tell what would be of Susan after that. If the shield took great part of the impact, she would pass out and awake a few hours later in a contingency cell with a huge head ache… but that wasn't the most likely outcome. Projections would tell him that an impact like that could lead to severe hemorrhage in her brain – and most likely would.

It was something Tony had always hoped he wouldn't have to use against a _friend_, but he wasn't naïve. He knew too well that if someone like Sue ever turned against him, or was _forced_ to, he would have to be prepared to fight to the last consequences – but to _kill_ or to _cripple _Susan, Sue of all people, was a line he hadn't prepared himself to cross. If he had learned one or two things since that dreadful Civil War was that there are things worth _dieing_ for, but hardly _killing_ for. The Cap had taught him that much, and he wasn't willing to disappoint him again.

On the other hand, it was his son who was in danger; his _son_, a child, and if he couldn't help him, who would? Stevie was just there, helpless, scared, and no doubt that if Susan escaped, if she resisted his attack, she would take the boy again – and who could tell what she would do then?

So, to his own dismay, he had pointed his palms at Susan and ordered the armor to shoot. He felt the heat of that immense power run down his arms, the steel gauntlets shaking as they charged to release a single, massive blast; the repulsors ray suddenly halted, and he prepared for the inevitable backlash he would receive when Sue tried to protect herself. "_Ready"_, he mentally reassured, and his palms glowed.

But nothing happened.

Although _nothing_ wasn't exactly the right word. Lots of things happened – nothing he had planned, however. It was with surprise and horror that Tony saw his armor get completely out of action, turning off in every sense of the expression: not only his connections with it were completely cut, but the entire thing dismantled and fell loose from his body. His Extremis connections were gone, and he felt an acute, unbearable headache grow to the point where he felt the need of closing his eyes and simply scream; blood burst from his ears and nose, and he fell to the ground, unable to even move his arms or legs.

The pain and shock clouded his mind before he could begin to think about what was happening to him, but, whatever it was, it didn't last. Just as abruptly as it arrived, it was gone.

Tony slowly opened his eyes, and raised his head in a cautious, calculated move. It was all so dark, so silent, so… still.

"Stevie?", he called.

There was no answer.

He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt the warm viscosity of it down his neck and chin. There was no pain, however, and he sensed his hearing returning to the its normal accuracy. He also felt his Extremis gifts coming back: he accessed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s net and radio again, just to realize that there were warnings and messages coming in quantity, most of them describing the sudden and abrupt interruption the entire system had suffered.

It seemed he hadn't been the only one who was attacked.

He stood in his feet again, his armor immediately building itself around him. "Stevie?", he enquired once more, now loud enough to make his voice echo in the tunnels. His chest PentaBeam illuminating the place, he was more than a little disturbed to see his son wasn't anywhere to be seen. "C'mon, kid, where are you…?"

But the answer came from another familiar voice:

"Tony…" It was weak groan, raspy and strenuous for the speaker; not easily recognizable, but he knew it immediately.

Flying twenty feet ahead, he found her wretched body. "Sue?", he asked with caution, keeping a safe distance from the woman that laid wounded on the floor, puddles of blood scattered around her, her hands pressing her chest right where he had first hit her.

"God…" She breathed with difficulty, her features showing signs of pain as her thorax moved up and down. "How…? How did I get here…?"

That was Sue. Her eyes, teary and alarmed, stared at him in deep confusion, begging for an answer; her face expressed emotion, her lips trembled, her shoulders shuddered. Every single scratch seemed to cause her pain, and her voice was a hesitant sound. Yes, that was Sue. Scared, perplexed, trustful Susan. Asking her _friend_ Tony about what was going on.

"You don't remember anything."

It wasn't a question, but she didn't seem to notice it:

"No, I don't. I…" Looking down to her body, she examined her ruined clothes and injures with disbelief. "What happened, Tony? Why am I…_hurt_?"

He got closer to her and got down on his knees, a hand reaching to rest on her shoulder:

"It's a long story, Sue, and I don't think this is the best place and moment to tell it, okay?" That didn't seem to convince her, but she also appeared to be too tired and damaged to argue. "There's a rescue team behind us, not far from here; they'll come for you."

She seized his arm, her blue eyes searching for his own gaze, a firm purpose in her voice:

"Did I _harm_ anyone, Tony?"

"Later, Sue." His tone was resolute as well. He pulled his arm away from her grip, and stood up while already activating his flight. "Just don't move, and wait for help."

Turning to go on the way he had came from, he left Susan behind in the darkness.

* * *

_Cold._It was _so_ cold. 

Everything hurt. Everything. _Why?_ His skin burned, his bones broken, his eyes pierced. So much _pain_! He wanted to shout, yell, cry at the loudest volume his voice could produce…!

But that was just it: his voice _couldn't_ produce any sounds. His body couldn't move. His mind… his mind couldn't _think_.

It was because of all the voices, and all the screams, and all the pictures he could see at once. People harmed, people afraid, and people _dead_. Dead, there were so many… so many bodies torn apart, and wretched flesh, and injured limbs. And sadness. And fear.

And _pain_!

It was other people pain.

They screamed in his head, and there was no way of making them stop.

"_Help!"_

There was nothing, no one to help.

"M-om…", he babbled, drawing air to his lungs between his muttered supplication. He wanted his mother. He wanted her, her warm embrace, her gentle arms – but she wouldn't come, would she?

Why those people couldn't stop _screaming_ in his head?!?

_Fire in 98__th__ West… rescue call… reporting attack at Central Park, over… my baby, my baby… Dios mio, ajuda-nos por favor… all units in Brooklyn, please… damage to the Helicarrier… the Avengers when you need them… my granny passed out… it burns! It burns!... time of death, two forty three… I had to shoot him, I swear to God… and she just bit his nose off… please, please, kill me, just kill me…_

"Stop!"

It was his voice that could be heard above all the others.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

_The Director is still… no, no, no, she can't be dead… he tossed his baby from the tenth floor… she used a gun on her husband's face… Spider-man caught the bus… the bridge fell in pieces… I can't breath! I can't… there was smoke in the Baxter building… all units, gang fight in Hell's Kitchen… ay, just give me another bear… _

He felt the solid wall of steel behind him: a _real_ wall. First feeling it with his back, then his fingers and hands, he turned to press his thorax on it, his cheek, and to rest his stretched arms on the cold metal. That's where he _really_ was; in the tunnels. He remembered the tunnels. The dark tunnels, where he met Aunt Sue, and she had been _mean_… and she hurt the guards, and then… then… she had hurt… his... mother…

"No…", he whispered. There were voices still, and they asked so much. Images of horrible things floated in his mind, images of destruction, images so ugly, and so bloody, and so real…

He vomited.

"_Please_…" It was just a vague sensation, but he felt his legs just couldn't carry him anymore.

_It's going to explode… an ambulance, we need an ambulance here… help her, she's pregnant… it's only a child, man, we can't do that to a… my hand, where's my hand… our father, who art in Heaven…_Stevie? _the question is, who would have the means to do something… help me, my wife is in that car… _Stevie, can you hear me? _I heard Invisible Woman did this… _Son, look at me_ if we blame the Al-Qaeda… a mass riot in the Raft, a massacre…_Convulsing episodes, one after another; if he keeps like that…_they are all dead, all of them… at least forty two Field Agents lost…_ Steven!

That was him. He was _Steven_. He was there in the silent, dark tunnels. He was there, and his father, _Iron Man_, was there too.

"I'm here, son. It's okay, you're safe now." There was metal touching the bare skin of his face, steel gloves that held him in a hard, tense grip. His father's voice, unaltered by the modulator, spoke close to his ear, a tender, affective sound. "C'mon, Stevie, wake up…!"

Blurred images took his sight by assault: luminescent spots, a dark background. Something like a word formed in his lips:

"Dad…?"

"Yes", he heard from the indistinct figure that, he realized, had lifted him from the floor. "I got you now, son."

The voices remained, but far more distant now; whispers and murmurs, senseless words, cries that had no clear owners.

"Are you hurt?" It was his father asking again, his features discernable as the boy focused his attention in his dad's deep-blue gaze, no Iron Man helmet in the way – he looked tired, preoccupied, frowning as he observed his son.

"I'm not hurt", Stevie said, noticing it was indeed true. He wasn't _injured_, not really; the pain, he knew, wasn't actually his. The pain, he knew, would go away with the voices…

Until it returned again.

"You'll be fine, Steven. Things are gonna be fine, now." His dad smiled, a subtle, kind smile of reassurance, an expression of gratitude and relief. Arms of steel gently, but surely, enveloped the child in a firmer, closer hug. "I promise."

"Okay, dad."

Shutting his eyes, the boy tried to concentrate in nothing but his father smooth movements as he flew, and the firm, secure surface of his armor. He was tired of being afraid, tired of invasive voices and images, tired of being in pain.

Tired of wondering if, in the end, all the bad things that happened that night were his fault.


	3. Part 1: Five years old: dad and his boy

Tony Stark: the Iron Man, Director of SHIELD, leader of the Mighty Avengers; all those things he was. Titles that represented his role as hero and leader, names that suited his dynamic, determinate, ingenious – and sometimes controlling – personality; political and active positions he assumed as a result of his endless effort to protect and improve this world. His world. His solutions, his ideas, his job. And he just loved his job.

Well, most of the time he did.

Nights like the one that was now behind him, however, could, even if only for a few moments, make Tony Stark – Iron Man, Director of SHIELD, leader of the Mighty Avengers – wonder what was that really kept him doing what he did.

_Armor out_, he mentally commanded, not even bothering to glance at the pieces of metal that detached from his body and rebuilt in its case. He was in his office, his fancy Director's Office in the Helicarrier, surrounded with charts, reports, documents, satellite pictures, monitors and tons of other sources of data and information. Paper sheets and data disks were pilled over his desk, and dozens of maps of Manhattan were spread on the walls, all with hundreds of circles, points and crosses drawn on them: for each one of those marks, an attack, a burst of sudden violence, and, not rarely, a death. A brutal, unnecessary, banal death. And they still didn't know how, or why.

At eleven hundred hours, the reports would say, a still inconclusive number of people in Manhattan (the estimative spoke of five to ten per cent of the population) started to present abnormal, aggressive behavior. Without reason or explanation, they began to attack family members, neighbors, friends, and, most of all, public property and Government authorities. In the Helicarrier, at least twenty Agents were affected in this manner, and they immediately began to sabotage the installations and the security system.

All around Manhattan, destruction and hell were installed.

The first reports told it was a biological agent, most likely spread through air. It was hard to tell, though; three hours later, people who were affected by this mysterious things just had suddenly regain their normal faculties – Sue Richards included -, and not a single trace of a strange organism or substance could be found in their blood.

Damages were incalculable. New York seemed like a war territory, destruction spreading through the island and then to the continent, some saying that even New Jersey had been affected. If that wasn't enough, this thing that affected people's behavior seemed to tend to cause heart attacks and strokes in those susceptible to it.

Primary numbers spoke of thousands of people injured – and reports confirmed, not even five minutes ago, what had been the fifth hundredth death. Five hundred. Five hundred dead as a direct result of the attack. Five hundred!

He punched his table.

The impact hit his knuckles without mercy, a painful shock that spread through his hand and up his arms, dieing somewhere in his shoulder; his muscles tensed; his bones trembled. _Damn it!_ Slowly raising his hand, he studied the damage on it with indifference: scratched knuckles, drops of vividly crimson blood surfacing through his pale skin… a minor discomfort. Nothing but an occasional sting, and the certainty that such a wound would soon be forgotten…

He would never forget what had happened that night.

Taking a handkerchief from his trousers' back pocket, he clumsily wrapped it around his hand. Checking his watch, he was moderately surprised: it was almost midnight again. Ten minutes, ten minutes to midnight… and it would be twenty four hours since he had left his penthouse – now destroyed – and found hell outside.

A deep sigh, an uncommon yawn, and he reached for a glass of cold water that was sweating over his desk. Drinking from it, he welcomed the freshness of the icy water – still, he couldn't avoid the desire in his heart, that disgraceful wish: 'if only it could be a nice scotch…!'

"_Stop it!"_ He commanded himself in a severe, disgusted tone. It was no time for self-pity, self-indulgence, or to be selfish. _I'm tired_, he realized.

Placing the now empty glass back on the table, Tony quickly selected a few documents and disks to take with him and, for the first time in almost sixteen hours, left his office.

The walk on the long corridors of the Helicarrier was a torture: every single guard and agent that crossed his way had that same look, that same confused, demanding glance in their eyes. _Do something!_, they seemed to silently scream at him. Answers, solutions, punishment – those were the things they wanted him to deliver.

And, of course, he had nothing.

He felt an unusual relief as he reached his private accommodations, the improvised apartment that was nothing more than a small study and a sleeping-bedroom. The eye-scanner and print recognizer did their usual job, the small screen showing his picture and the label: _Director A. E. Stark - Clear_. He then used his security card and typed his code, waiting with impatience as the device confirmed and authorized his entrance; the door finally unlocked, he gently pushed it open, and stepped softly inside the room.

The small desk lamp was the single source of light in the place, a discreet and modest office that in no way could compare to his elaborated quarters a few floors above. Decorated with only a pair of armchairs, a leather sofa, and a desk he had brought from the old Avenger's Mansion - it had belonged to him ever since he was a boy, a piece of furniture especially chosen by his mother when she first realized her son enjoyed books and airplane models much more than any of his ordinary toys -, the room had served, in all these years as SHIELD Director, as an occasional refuge. Everybody knew, from the lowest rank soldier to his second-in-command, Dum-Dum Dugan, that the Director shouldn't be bothered when he entered those quarters, and Tony usually, though with prudence, encouraged that attitude. Considering the long hours he often put in his work, it was a welcomed blessing that he could indulge, every once in a while, a moment of privacy and quietness.

That night, however, his arrival there had little or nothing to do with quietness, or even with taking a moment to rest; his work was far from done, and he didn't feel any need to take a break. However, he did feel there was a good reason to keep him away from work, even if for only a couple hours. The reason, he noticed as he closed the door behind him, deeply slept on his leather sofa.

Curled in a corner of the couch, a blanket with a large SHIELD's emblem wrapped around him, Stevie, his five years-old son, snored in undisturbed peace. His dark hair, which his mother had always refused to cut short, was now a mess of entangled locks, with thick curls that adhered to his sweaty front; his cheeks, rosy portions of tender skin, carried the distinctive marks of the external sewing lines in the sofa's cushion, and his thumb, a small, perfectly delineated finger, still laid with its tip between the slightly open lips of the boy. That brought a smile to Tony's features - as a baby, Stevie would only fall sleep with his thumb in his mouth, a habit that Tony believed to be far behind... he didn't know his son could still find comfort in this gesture and, truth to be told, he was kind of relieved to discover that simple things like thumb sucking hadn't been completely abandoned.

Kneeling beside the couch, he took a moment to watch his child, examining his undefiled features with great attention: his familiar traces, so elegantly shaped, so beautifully made. Stevie was a handsome kid, Tony was always proud to observe, and carried great resemblance to his mother: same eyes, same slender, tall built; smooth curves on his face and nose, and that same mouth and its thin, carefully sculpted lips.

The resemblance wouldn't go much farther, though. Other than that, Stevie was like his father in many ways, and Tony knew it too well. In his dark hair and angled chin, his crafty hands and, most of all, in his brilliant mind. Not that Maya wasn't just as smart as Tony was, being her a talented scientist and medical doctor; however, it wasn't that, that recognizable high intelligence, what Tony saw in his son - or not only that, at least. He saw more, so to speak; he saw creativity and boldness, an endless hunger for knowledge... always looking for something new. Always looking forward, and never afraid of what lies ahead. _That_, he knew, was something in which Stevie was just like him.

Touching the boy's cheek with the tip of his fingers, Tony lightly caressed his face. _My boy_, he thought, an oppressive, suffocating feeling suddenly sinking his heart in an ocean of distress. Hours ago, he recalled - in images so vivid that it could have happened just now -, Commander Maria Hill had approached him and said, her own eyes misted, that Stevie had been seriously hurt in an explosion. _How bad?,_ he had asked; _really bad_, she answered; and Tony would forever keep to himself that terrible, overwhelming sensation that claimed him at that moment… the coldness in his stomach, the intense, actual physical pain in his chest, the invisible pressure on his thorax that draw all the air in his lungs abruptly out of him. The world whirled around him, his sight was engulfed in darkness; for a second, he thought he was going to lose his conscience, lose his sanity – it wouldn't be hard to let it slip away…

But he was Iron Man. And Director of SHIELD. And leader of the Mighty Avengers. He had a backbone of iron, and, like so many times in his life, he faced it and sucked it up.

In the end, what really forced him in his armor and out of the Helicarrier was Maya. Or, at least, his urgency to see Maya, the persistent idea that she needed him. As he flew, he watched the videos and satellite pictures that showed images of his penthouse, and he was horrified to see that the plane explosion had happened precisely where his son's room was located. There was nothing left, nothing but destruction and…

Death.

He had only allowed himself to hope when Captain Hawllet communicated with the Head-Quarters: he was entering the underground facilities with the Director's family; the Director's wife and son.

"Is the child all right?", he heard Commander Hill ask.

There was a moment of silent hesitance before the Captain finally answered.

"Well, he seems to be… recovering."

Recovering? From what? Tony observed his son's unharmed features, once again amazed to realize he didn't have even a single scratch on him. The doctors had examined him from head to toe, submitted the boy to MRIs and X-Rays, used the most modern techniques they knew; there was nothing. Nothing, nothing that explained what had happened to him. "The first report we had was that Steven was dead, sir", Commander Hill had said in a grave, distrustful tone. He had nodded his head and dismissed her words with a hand gesture – fortunately enough, there was no lack of work to keep her mind away from his son.

But no amount of work could distract Tony from that.

"What happened to you, Stevie?" He ran his fingers through the boy's dark hair.

The gesture seemed to disturb the child's sleep, as he rolled on the sofa and mumbled indistinct words. Seconds later, his eyelids still heavy and drowsy, the boy yawned and turned his gaze to his quietly observant father.

"Hi", he said, his voice sounding hoarse and lazy.

"Hey." Tony couldn't avoid a smile at the sight of his son's sleepy and slightly annoyed features. "How' you doing?"

"I'm okay." Yawning again, Stevie kicked the blanket away from him and sat, his head supported on the couch's arm.

"That's good."

"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to pull away the sleepiness that forced his eyes shut.

"You can go back to sleep if you want to, son." Seating next to the boy in the couch, he passed an arm around his small, warm body; dressed in one of his father's shirts, which was, obviously, too big for him, Stevie seemed even younger and smaller than he actually was, something that flooded Tony with an urge to protect him. Pulling the kid closer, he sheltered his son's face on his chest. "You must be tired… I'm sorry I waked you."

"It's okay", the boy said, his voice now alert and wide awake. "I don't wanna sleep… I was waiting for you."

"Were you?"

"Yes." He loosened himself from his father's arms, raising his head to look at his dad. "When is mom coming?"

Tony sighed. Taking one of the boy's hands between his, his glance on Stevie's soft palm, on the short-cut nails of the slender fingers that closed around his thumb, he spoke in a gentle, unruffled tone:

"She's still with the doctors, son… in surgery. Remember I told you about that? The doctors are helping mom, but it takes a long time."

Stevie seemed to absorb his father's words in a thoughtful, preoccupied silence. Pulling his hand away from Tony's grasp, he crossed his arms over his chest, and moved a few inches to stay in one of the couch's corner.

"I'm sorry, Stevie." The boy was clearly upset, and, although Tony could understand why – it should be pretty scary for a little boy of five the fact that his mother was seriously sick -, he didn't exactly know what to do. "There's really nothing I can do about this."

His son's eyes darted at him:

"Not even _Iron Man_ can help?"

Was that _mockery_ in the boy's tone? Resentment? That certainly wasn't just an innocent question from a desperate child, was it? Stevie's gaze, despite the tears that now began to run down his cheek, carried a strange determination, a fury that Tony couldn't quite see where it had suddenly came from.

"No, Steven. Not even Iron Man can help." He watched as his son turned to face away from him, showing his father but that back of his head. "I know this has been a bad, bad day for you, son." He approached the boy again, resting his hand on his back: he was quietly sobbing, Tony noticed, and apparently going through a lot of effort to not let it show. "Look… don't worry, okay? Things will be fine; your mom will be fine. Doctors will fix her, and she will be as good as new again; I promise."

"You're back already", said a feminine voice behind him. "I wasn't expecting you before morning."

"Hello, Pepper." He turned to face the red haired, freckled woman that stood on the passage to the sleeping bedroom, and who now hid a yawn behind her hand.

"Oh, well… that's a good surprise, isn't it, Stevie? Daddy coming here just to see you…" Her tone was soft and flooded with tenderness, and she had a kind smile in her lips as she walked to the sofa in subtle, quick steps. "Isn't that right, Tony?"

"It is", was Tony's solemn answer. He remove his hand from the child's back, then allowing his elbows to rest on his tights as he leaned forward, his gaze on his own entwined fingers between his legs.

Pepper kneeled close to the boy, immediately reaching to caress Stevie's face.

"I told you, didn't I…?" Her smile melted when she laid eyes on the boy's features. She frowned, looking deeply worried. "Sweetie, what's wrong…?!? Why are you crying…?"

Stevie flinched, silently rejecting Pepper's touch; he reclined on the couch, arms again crossed in front of his body, his chin resting on his chest, his shoulders shaking in the rhythm of his constrained sobs. "I'm _not_ crying..!", was his whispered protest, his lips then pressed in a tense, angry line.

"Honey…" Her green eyes went from the boy to his father, and back again; she seemed puzzled, and utterly frustrated when Tony merely avoided her questioning look. Nodding her head in disapproval, she then concentrated in Stevie again, seating between him and Tony and reclining to find the boy's glance, which he stubbornly kept away from her. "Didn't we talk about that, sweetheart? Hm? Didn't we agree that there's nothing wrong with crying every once in while…?"

The child angrily replied:

"I'm NOT…"

"Okay, okay!" She interrupted him at once, a sympathetic half-smile emphasizing her words of agreement. A hand under his chin, she gently caressed the soft outlines of his face. "Then maybe you should wash up, kiddo… You're all sweaty and sticky…"

Her smile widened and she placed a kiss on his forehead, to which there was no protest.

"Go on", she encouraged the boy as he slid out of the sofa and slowly walked out of the room, glancing over his shoulder at the pair of adults that remained sat: Pepper smiling, Tony watching in concentrated silence, the back of his head resting on the wall behind the sofa as he now leaned back in a more comfortable position.

They said nothing until Stevie walked out of the room and they heard the bathroom's door closing with a loud noise. Pepper immediately turned to Tony, her tone an enraged whisper:

"What the hell happened?!?" Her cheeks were slightly flushed. "He was fine before falling asleep, refusing to sleep anywhere but the couch because he wanted to see you the minute you walked in…" She shook her head in confusion, her eyes pressed wide shut, nervously gesticulating with her arms and hands. "What did you say to him, Tony?"

He raised both hands to rub his face, keeping them there while speaking, his voice a tired, defeated sound: "Pepper… please, I can't deal with this now, okay…? I have millions of things to tend, thousands of places I have to be, and, honestly, I think every single person in this place, in this town, hell, in this country is expecting an explanation from me about what happened last night." He lowered his hands, now revealing pale, melancholic features. "And you know what's killing me?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "What?"

"Right now, it's the fact that I couldn't even give my five year-old a satisfactory, encouraging answer about his mother's health." He vaguely nodded his head from side to side, a gesture of disapproval that could be directed to none other than himself. "Now he's clearly more upset than before, and I'm quite sure he hates me…"

"Don't be silly." Pepper was smiling again, and she rested a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Of course he doesn't hate you…! He's just… you know, _scared_, and he misses his mom."

"We all miss Maya, that's for sure…" He took a deep breath and leaned, resting his head on the sofa's soft back, closing his eyes as he pressed them with his right thumb and index finger. "God, Pepper, what will I do if she dies…? How can I take care of Stevie on my own…?"

"Tony", she called, a serious, severe tone. "Tony, look at me."

His eyes opened to see her expression fit her intonation perfectly; Pepper, on the other hand, proceeded with her speech:

"Listen carefully." She approached her face from his, her green gaze fixed in his dark blue, intrigued glance. "You can do it. If Maya doesn't make it – God forbid it, but if she doesn't -, you will deal with it. You _can_; you can take care of Stevie on your own, I know you can…!" He features softened when a discreet half-smile showed on the left corner of her mouth. "You're not a bad father, Tony…"

"I definitely feel like one, though", he replied.

"You've always been too hard on yourself." Pepper assumed a more relaxed position on the couch, moving a few inches away from Tony and pulling her legs up. "There's no way you won't make mistakes with your kid: that's a fact. But it's normal; it's just how things are…"

He didn't have an answer to that, and merely kept his eyes focused on the ceiling above. Pepper, however, continued to talk, now in a tender, indulgent intonation:

"You don't have to be that perfect, flawless hero for him, Tony… Just his dad."

But Tony sighed.

"If I can't be my own son's hero, Pepper… Then what's the point?"

* * *

First there was movement under her eyelids, a slow, almost imperceptible motion; then, a long, deep breath, followed by a low moan. Her left hand trembled. Fingers stretching and curling, grabbing the fabric of the sheet between them – her hand closed in a fist. Her lips moved: first slightly, then intensely. Pressed together, and gently reopening again, now in a yawn. Her head moved, rolling on her pillow from side to side. And then, finally, were her eyes opening again, revealing those greenish-brown pupils that were so beautifully exotic under the pale light.

"Good morning", he said, keeping his voice in a low, peaceful tone, trying to not cause her any distress.

She seemed confused for a moment, blinking repeatedly while staring at him. Then, slowly, a smile showed in her lips.

"It's you", she whispered, her voice, although gentle, was a hoarse, raspy sound.

"It's me", he agreed, now lifting from the chair he had spend the last three hours sat on. Walking the four feet that separated him from her bed, he halted next to her and examined the woman for a moment; a thin, fragile thing she was. Needles pierced her skin, tubes went inside her through drains, stitches and bandages closed her wounds.

She was so hurt.

"I was wondering where you could be…" Her smile widened, and she dismissed the pain with a sigh and a brief frown of eyebrows.

"I came." He watched as she raised her hand, her palm up, an enormous effort for just a few inches. There was no denial to that gesture: he grabbed her cold fingers with his. "As soon as I could."

"Thank you", she said, now shutting her eyes again.

"For what?"

"Oh, everything." A low, very feminine smirk escaped her lips. "For being here. For what you did in the tunnels. For taking care of Stevie and me…"

"Well, you _are_ my wife. You and Stevie are my family… the only one I have, by the way." Now he used his free hand to softly caress her arm, his fingers stroking her silken skin as they made their way up to her elbow, and then back again. "I love you. Though, I admit, this isn't something I say or demonstrate very often…"

She glanced at him, an amused expression as she examined his grave features.

"You certainly say it more frequently than you admit you don't say it enough, that's for sure." She risked a laugh, but a sudden pain interrupted it abruptly, and her fingers closed around his hand in a tight, anxious grip. "God…"

"Please, don't strain yourself…!" The concern in his voice was honest and spontaneous.

"It's all right", she said, with slight impatience. "I'm… okay."

"You will be, Maya." Moving a rebel lock of dark hair away from her face, he followed the gesture by reaching a hand to gently massage the lobe of her left ear. "You will be as good as new in no time… I promise."

Leaning her head to allow more contact with his fingers, she sighed and seemed to relax. "I love you too, Tony", she muttered.

A brief smile touched his lips, but soon it was gone; he contracted his mouth in a tense, straight line, and removed both hands to his pockets. His expression was stern, his eyes narrowing as he turned an evaluative glance at his wife.

Maya, however, looked intrigued, if not confused.

"Something wrong?", she asked, hesitance in her tone.

Tony brushed a hand across his jaw, finishing the motion by scratching his well-cared, short beard on his chin. He stared at Maya with intensity, carefully preparing his next words.

"What's the matter, Tony?" Her pale cheeks gained color, and her words denounced distress. The greenish-brown pupils darted in anguish. "Did something happen? With Stevie…?

"No", he assured immediately. "No, nothing happened to him, he's fine. He's… just fine."

Realizing he couldn't bare to face her at that moment, he turned to stare at the blank wall on his left, now allowing her the sight of his clear-cut profile. Clearing his throat, he then took a long, deep breath, and spoke in a tone that was nothing like the kindness and sympathy he had shown only moments before:

"Why didn't you tell me, Maya?" There was bitterness in his words.

She didn't answer immediately; an entire minute passed before she spoke, and she did it in a faint, almost inaudible voice:

"I was going to."

He smirked, a sound that was somewhere between mockery and disbelief. She seemed offended by that, and insisted in a hurt, anxious tone:

"I was, Tony! I swear; that night, when I told you we needed to talk…" A low, disguised groan of pain finished her sentence in a sudden way.

Looking over his shoulder, Tony's glance carried preoccupation, but that lasted seconds; as soon as she regained control, he too returned to his distant, cold posture.

"Seven weeks, Maya. _Seven weeks_!" He turned to face her again, not wishing to conceal his resentment. "I'm pretty sure you had many other opportunities before that night… That same evening we went out to dinner, and you acted like there was nothing to… My God, Maya, you drank almost an entire bottle of wine that night!" The last sentence came out as an angry hiss, disapproval in Tony's every gesture.

A painful sob caused Maya's chest to bounce, and tears fell from the corners of her closed eyes and ran down the sides of her face. Tony proceeded, however, and there were no signs of mercy in his voice:

"How could you not tell me…? How could you?!? Shut me out like that, ignore me, pretend it had nothing to do with me…?!?"

"Oh, Tony, no…! It was nothing like that…"

"What it was like, then?"

"I don't know… I…"

"You don't know? You were _seven weeks pregnant_, Maya! My wife was pregnant, and I had no idea…! How do you think it makes me feel?"

"I was going to tell you. I swear, that night, before… before all of this, I was going to tell you."

He sighed. "It's too late, now."

Her expression changed: from sadness to abrupt anger, her voice gaining a sudden strength. "Go to hell, Tony!" She spit those words in true, deep resentment. "Go to hell! You're a damn hypocrite, you know?"

His own features remained unaltered. "What do you mean?"

Now she was panting, teeth clenched, and she seemed to be pain; however, she proceeded:

"You never _wanted_ another child, Tony."

The statement was simple and direct, though she had now turned her glance to the glass window on her right, escaping from his scrutinizing eyes. Her next words came in a soft, gentle sound, almost as she was speaking to herself, not to someone else:

"I never understood why… you never wanted to talk about it, discuss it, but it was obvious: the way you avoided the conversation, how you never even mentioned the possibility…" Maya hesitated for a few moments, a sad smile on her lips. "Or that one time, two years ago – remember? -, when I told you I thought I was pregnant, but had just discovered I wasn't? God, you should have seen your face… you went from terror to relief in just a few seconds. And when I pointed it out, you just said 'it wasn't the best moment, that's all…' Bullshit. Bullshit, Tony…"

"Did you want me to lie", he said, "pretend I was _happy_, glad?"

Now there wasn't anger in his voice; sadness, and a taste of bitterness. He approached her bed again, seating on it and facing the wall across:

"I love our son, Maya. I really do. But…"

He suddenly stopped talking, his own words seeming to be too much for him; all he did was take a deep breath, and then lower his glance to the floor. Maya, however, moved under her sheets, and used her elbows to slightly raise her upper body, a maneuver that, despite the expression of pain that took her features, brought more strength to her tone.

"Don't stop now, Tony… We're not sparing each other any dirty little secrets, isn't that so?"

"You were the only one with secrets, Maya."

"Liar", she simply stated.

Tony turned a resentful look at his wife. Maya, however, was far from intimidated by that, and kept talking while exhibiting a gloomy smile:

"I know you, Tony – more than you would want me to. I know you, and I know what you were about to say…"

To his surprise, she stretched her own fingers to grasp his.

"We both love our son… so much. But having a child… well, it has shown us how much we have to lose." She looked up at him, her dark eyes teary. "Forgive me, Tony."

"Maya…"

She interrupted him with a sob, and then words were spoken while it grew and turned into a persistent cry:

"I thought I wanted it, Tony… at first, I thought… I thought it could be good for us…!"

"It doesn't matter anymore", he said in a tone that showed less resent.

"But it does…!" She held her breath for a moment, and used her free hand to wipe off the few tears that had come down her cheeks. "It matters, Tony… I may have _lost it_, but…"

"It wasn't your fault."

Maya smiled at him, recognizing the generosity of those words. "Thank you", she said.

"It's the truth." Turning his glance to their entwined fingers, he proceeded in a low, yet husky voice. "You're right, Maya. You're right when you say I never wanted another child…"

"One is enough", she said with bitterness. "One is more than enough when your child has to live this life, right?" She nodded her head in agreement to her own statement. "When you have to see him go through what Stevie went that night. We had no idea, right? We had no idea… we didn't know what we were doing to him when we had him… What it meant to be _Iron Man's_ son…!"

"I have limits, Maya. Like any other man."

"I understand."

"No, you don't." his tone was firm, stern, and his eyes stared coldly again. "Because if you did, you would have told me."

Letting go of her hand, Tony stood up, and with a few steps he reached the door. There he halted, turning to speak with his wife before finally leaving:

"It's you who can't forgive me, Maya. You just can't accept… well, this life. _My_ life, which was supposed to be _our_ life. It's dangerous, it's crazy, but it's who I am – and I do my best to keep up with all my responsibilities, you and Stevie included."

The door opened behind him, and he stepped out of the room:

"So, _no_, I didn't want another child. Not if he or she would be just another reason for you to be disappointed with me."

"Tony, I never…"

The door closed, and her words were lost behind it. Tony sighed. _"Just let it go"_, he told himself.

Because it was time to go, and he had much work to do.

* * *

It was almost after an entire month that mom was allowed out of the medical facilities, and dad decided that they wouldn't live in the Helicarrier anymore. Their home in the Tower had been destroyed - _again_, dad said with dismay -, and so they wouldn't be able to return to the penthouse for many, many months, mom explained.

It was good thing that dad had many other houses, though. He had explained that the city, New York, _their _city, was too damaged, and it wouldn't be safe for them there. _We're going to live in Washington now_, his father announced one morning; he had a nice house in DC, and dad always had to go there to work and go to meetings. _You'll like it_, he said.

Mom was happy about that too. She said they would have lots of fun there, and that he would have a new room, new toys, new books and a lot of new places to visit. _It will be like a vacation_, she told him, a broad smile on her lips.

So dad made all the arrangements - Pepper helped him a lot -, and a week later they were ready to go. Pepper and Mrs. Rennie would live there with them for a while, because mom would need help, and a bunch of SHIELD officer would go too. _To keep an eye on you and mom_, dad explained with a smile, but that didn't make Stevie feel better in any way - that night, when Aunt Sue had gone crazy, the bodyguards hadn't been able to do much, had they?

_And_ they had been badly hurt. Really bad.

The evening before they left to Washington - a cold night, with the first snow of that winter -, Stevie fell asleep on his parents bed, like he would do every night since mom had left the hospital. They had dinner - soup for mom, hot-dogs for Stevie -, watched a movie on TV - "Miracle on 34th Street" -, and mom received a visit from the doctor; he slept by his mother side, as she gently stroked his hair and caressed his cheeks.

He dreamt about a furious monster of red eyes, who reached putrefied hands at his direction, his rotten breath suffocating the boy as he watched the zombie-like creature approach him with its ominous, sharp fangs...

Stevie woke up in a quiet, dark room; the soft bed under him, a heavy blanket covering his body almost from head to toe, barely leaving his face out. He was, however, alone - mom wasn't there, and neither was dad: from what he could hear, they talked in the living room, their words muffled sounds behind the closed door.

"Perhaps is for the best", dad was saying in a tired tone.

"The best for who?", mom replied, sadness in her voice. "Not for me, or Stevie..."

The boy shivered; something bad was about to happened, he guessed. _Another_ bad thing.

"For _us_, Maya. You and me", dad explained, and there was a slight sign of impatience in his voice. "We need time to think."

"_You_ do, that's what you mean." Listening to his mother, Stevie wondered if she was crying.

"Yes, I do. But you should be doing some thinking yourself."

"And what do you think I've been doing for the last _month_, lying on that bed all day?" She sounded irritated.

"I'm sorry." Dad's apologies seemed to carry a sincere regret. "Things have been so crazy in this last month..."

There was silence for long moments, no words spoken.

"How long?", mother suddenly asked, now in a grave tone.

"A couple months. Maybe a little longer."

"_Months_? Oh, Tony...!"

"It's a delicate situation, Maya." Stevie heard as his father took a deep breath, and again he felt his dad was probably really, really tired. "I'm going to be helping the Japanese Government in a project that is much like the Initiative... and the last thing I want is for them to repeat our mistakes... Then, there's the long promised visit to Middle East and China, you know how tricky those can be; I've been trying to negotiate SHIELD's presence in countries around the world since I became Director, and..."

"I understand the _politics_ in it, Tony...! I know it's important for you, but..."

"I'm not leaving you, Maya." Dad steps seemed to cross the room, and his tone was almost a whisper. "I will _never_ leave you."

"Yes", she agreed, her voice a faint sound. "You wouldn't walk way from us... you hate quitting. You never learned to give up."

His father appeared to have taken mom's words with offense:

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Now her tone was steadier, stronger. "Could it be that you just can't finish this?"

There was no answer from his father.

"Please, Tony... I can handle a break up, but I can't handle your silence. If you can't be in this relationship anymore..."

"No", he said, an abrupt, solemn word. "No, I don't want... I _won't_."

"Are you sure?"

He smirked. "You never really believed me, did you?"

"Believe you?"

"That I really _love_ you, Maya." It seemed to Stevie that his mom and dad were probably really close to each other, as his father spoke in a low, almost inaudible tone. "And that's why I want to give it another shot. That's the reason I'm not going to quit."

Silence followed, and Stevie knew that, this time, mom had believed his dad.

* * *

That morning dad walked them to the Helicarrier's Main Deck, where one of the helicopters waited to take them to Washington. It was a gray, cold day, and the freezing wind outside had forced Stevie to wear a heavy coat and - he thought - an infinite number of useless sweaters and socks. Mom, who had to be taken in a wheel chair while crossing the deck, was also dressed for the rigorous winter, and had a blanket around her shoulders while Pepper pushed her to the helicopter. "I hate this", she said, unhappy about the doctors not letting her walk by herself.

"It's a precaution, my dear." Dad had a gentle smile on his lips, and he, to Stevie's surprise, wore nothing more than one of his black suits.

"Aren't you cold, dad?" He asked when they reached the open air heliport, his father holding his hand and greeting the pilots.

"No, son. Are you?"

He wasn't. "No", he answered with delight. "I'm _never_ cold!"

Dad laughed with amusement, and lowered to place his hands under Stevie's arms, then pulling him up above his head. "That's a good Stark...! You're _never _cold, hm? Never-ever?"

The boy giggled, arms stretched as his father waggled him. Mom reprehended:

"Yes, keep telling him that Starks don't wear coats... like it isn't already hard enough to convince him that he needs them...!"

That didn't have any effect in his dad, who just accommodated Stevie on his forearm while kissing the boy's flushed cheek. "Tell your mommy, son... The Starks have steaming blood and iron skin!"

"Mommy", Stevie repeated, now enlacing his father's neck with both arms, "the Starks have 'steelming' blood and..."

"I know, I know...!" Maya rolled her eyes and spoke in pretense boredom, although a half-smile colored her features. "I heard your dad when _he_ recited yet another family motto..."

"What's a 'motto'?", was Stevie's intrigued enquire.

"Something that, apparently, makes mommy very grumpy..."

"Just because _mommy_ has a bit of a problem with daddy playing 'macho', that's all."

"What's 'macho'?", the boy asked while his father helped him enter the helicopter.

"I'll show you", dad said with a broad smile in his lips. Then, turning to mom, who was now struggling to rise from the wheelchair, he leaned and, in a quick, confident movement, took her in his arms.

"Tony!" Mother's expression betrayed her surprise and pleasure, disguised in outrage.

"I know, dear…" he placed her in a safe seat inside, but not before placing a tender kiss on her lips. "I know… It's a 'macho' and very adorable gesture. No need to thanks."

"You are a silly, arrogant, self-righteous man, Mr. Stark…" She grasped his tie before he could stand up, and forced his lips on hers again. "And, right now, I do like that. So you better get yourself to Washington a.s.a.p., hear me?"

"I certainly do, Mrs. Stark…" he kissed her one last time, a long, passionate gesture, which was followed by an affectionate embrace.

Then the father turned his attention to his young son.

"Take care of your mother, okay?"

Stevie's expression was a concentrated, stern mask. "Okay, daddy."

Kneeling to look at the boys eyes, Tony spoke in a tender tone:

"It will be fine, Stevie. I promise."

"You'll come and visit us?"

Tony smirked – there was a touch of sadness in that:

"It's my home too, son." He caressed the boy's face, then holding his face up by the chin. "I'll be with you guys soon."

"Okay, daddy."

"Okay."

He stood up and stepped out of the helicopter, waving a silent goodbye while the aircraft left in a loud farewell. Tony watched the helicopter gain speed and distance, and observed it until it became nothing more than a small spot in the grey skies, nothing distinguishing it from the snow flakes that fell around him. "Cold morning", he said, speaking to no one in particular.

"The winter has just begun", answered a feminine voice behind him.

"Always the optimistic, right, Maria?"

Agent Hill nodded in agreement, a sarcastic smile in her lips:

"Someone has to be that annoying voice that always tells the truth."

"Oh, Maria… You don't mean to say you're my conscience, do you? Many women have tried, and let me tell you, it doesn't work so well…"

"Far from that, Director Stark." Any signs of that previous smile had left her face without leaving a single sign. "Or we wouldn't be here now, watching that helicopter go."

"Oh, don't start… You're boring me with your repetitive talk."

"Boring you, sir?" She seemed slightly offended by those words, what Tony knew it meant she was actually very offended. "Boring you? I'm boring you when I talk about your own son, and the strange things that happened – and probably still are happening – to him?"

"You do. Especially when you insist in discuss something that is, how they call it? Ah, yes… 'water under the bridge'!"

He turned to leave the deck, Hill following him close.

"Sir, I refuse to call 'water under the bridge' what could be an important piece of the puzzle that could explain what happened that hideous night…"

Tony suddenly halted, turning to face Maria and give her his most cold, severe glance:

"I'm warning you, Maria: the issue is over! There wont be another word said about it, understand?"

"Sir, we lost fifty…"

"Fifty eight of our men that night, Maria, I know that! I know their names, their wives' names, their kids, their parents' names! I know exactly how they died, and I wonder every single day what we could've done to avoid it. All. This. I. Know."

There was no response what so ever from Agent Hill, except the rage that shadowed her eyes.

"Again: this conversation is over. For now, and forever. Understood?"

She blinked before answering:

"Understood, sir."

"Excellent", he snapped, and accelerated his pace, leaving Maria behind.

The end of part one


	4. PART2: Seven years old:a father to trust

_And here comes Part 2… Hope you enjoy. Thank you so much for reading – review if you can._

_AliaAtreidesBr_

_

* * *

_**PART 2**

**Seven years old: a father to trust**

"You don't have to go inside if you don't want to, sweetie." Mom's grip on his hand got tighter. "Not right now, anyway. You can just wait for me here, and watch dad from this side of the glass…"

"I wanna go in", he abruptly said, in the most firm tone he was able to produce.

She glanced down at him, lips pursed, a worried expression in her features.

"Are you sure?"

His answer carried a solid determination:

"Yes."

"Okay, then."

They approached the entrance, and the two S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents that guarded it solemnly saluted them before opening the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stark", one of them muttered, his tone so timid that his simple words were hard to discern. His companion, a female, didn't speak; eyes staring at the floor as mother and child passed by her, she offered a quiet and sober nod.

Stepping inside, the room revealed nothing different from what it appeared to be when looking through the large glass walls that set its physical limits: no windows or any other entrance but the one they had just used, a glass cubicle occupied by monitors and machines, tubes and wires, noises and numbers that referred to things the boy couldn't understand. Small, with bright lamps that seemed to shed too much light for the size of that place. No chairs, no television, not a single piece of furniture, except for this: a bed, a hospital bed, where an immobile, unconscious patient lay, all the machinery in the room connected to him. He was sick, so very sick, this one patient; so sick that, actually, he might be dying.

The door slid close behind mother and son, sealing all the sounds outside. Inside, nothing but the gentle snore of a respirator, and the high-pitched beeps of a heart monitor. The boy looked up to his mother: her face carried a strong resolution, an angry acceptance. She looked ahead, first checking on the readings of the many monitors around them, and then permitting her glance to fall on the man that lay on that bed.

She trembled.

The boy slipped his hand from the grasp of his mother's fingers, and to that he found no resistance. He stepped back, his ankles hitting the closed door behind him – his mother, however, walked forward, and with a few steps she was standing next to the bed.

"My God, Tony…" Her voice was a whisper, and the words came through her lips tumbling on strangled sobs. She gently lifted her right hand, kindly caressing the pale, ashen face of her unconscious husband. Her left hand she used to take hold of his slender, cold fingers, clasping them in a gesture that was pure hope – as if her emotive touch could awaken something, provoke a reaction, and do what nothing else so far had been able to. A gesture of deep faith… that ended in profound frustration.

"Damn it, Tony…" Now her own cheeks seemed colorless, like all the blood in her veins had been suddenly washed away. "How…? How did this…?"

Her right hand rose to cover her mouth, conveniently muffling an abrupt cry. In his corner of the room, Stevie flinched.

The boy lowered his glance to stare at his own feet, unable to watch his mother's pain; wasn't bad enough, he thought, that his father was so helplessly hurt?

But hurt wasn't quite the word for Tony Stark's state; wounded, injured, disabled – those words worked better. _Turned off_, Stevie thought. Like a device, a _thing_, his father had been turned off.

_Well done, little boy… good work!_

The boy felt his stomach tense, a bitter taste in his mouth. _"Shut up!"_ he begged.

His back touching the glass wall, he allowed his small body the relief of lowering and sat on the floor, the cold, white floor. A strange, uncomfortable place that was: a floor in Shield's hellicarrier he had never visited before, full of rooms with glass walls like this one, most of them looking like laboratories, with exotic objects inside them, and people dressed in white working in there. There were familiar faces: Dr. Pym, and Uncle Reed, and other people he had seen before. All of them, he noticed, stopping what they were doing just to see him and mom pass.

_It's pity in their eyes_, said that malicious voice in his mind, _pity for an orphan and a widow to be…_

Lie. That had to be a lie.

* * *

**Two Weeks Ago**

_Wake up, child! _

He did.

Night outside. Peaceful. Dark inside. Silent.

Voices in his mind.

_Get out of the bed, boy!_

The Voice.

"Shut up!", he commanded, keeping his own voice in a low tone. "Shut up, shut up, shut up…!"

He thought about yelling for his mother, but that would be no good: she wasn't home. Mom worked now – for the government, just like his dad -, and she had to travel every once in a while because of that. That night, for example: she was far away, in a city called Hong Kong, and wouldn't be back for at least three more days – or so told him his dad.

So, there was no use in calling mom.

_You are alone, Steven. Always alone._

"Liar!" The boy jumped out of bed, both hands pressing his temples. In two years, he had learned a few tricks to quiet The Voice: compress his head, sing out loud, or even self-inflicted pain; those usually worked. However, the only thing that always, always worked was this: mom's arms around him, her soft voice as she spoke to him. It had never failed.

_Where __is__ your mother, Steven?_

"Dad…", the boy called, his heart beating in fury. Dad was home; he had put him in bed that night, and said he would be working in his office in the 39th floor. _"Use the intercom if you need me, okay?"_, he said while placing the device, something like a very small radio, over the boy's desk. _"And I'll be here in a second." _

Stevie reached the intercom in a hurry, his hands nervously grasping it and pressing the red button on the side. "Dad…!"

Sinister laughs in his head.

"Dad?"

There was no sound coming from the device, no lights on, not even the characteristic buzz – it was mute, dead, useless. And the voice loved it:

_It's okay, Steven… You still have me!_

A cruel, sadistic chuckle engulfed his mind.

"Stop!", the boy yelled, now loud enough to make his voice echo in the penthouse corridors. He felt warm tears in his eyes and coldness in his stomach – _would that night be the night?_, he wondered in terror.

It was his greatest fear: that The Voice would come someday, and never go away.

_That's right, boy! It's tonight… After tonight…_

"No!"

Stevie ran out of his bedroom, hands still pressing his head, his nails painfully grazing his own scalp. His steps spread through the apartment, nervous, quick steps of his bare feet on the cold floor. Eyes closed, the boy instinctively made way through the corridors, caring little for the obstacles in his way: he hit wall corners and tumbled in one of his mother's beloved Persian rugs, but that was of little concern for him; The Voice, that mean, terrifying voice, that was what he cared about.

_Find your father, child. Tell him, Stevie… Tell him about us…_

"I will!" Now he was furious; angry, disgusted, in pain. He reached the stairs to the first floor of the penthouse, the 39th, a place he would rarely go: mom had always told him that the first floor was where dad worked, and it was no place for a little boy. Stevie knew why – mom hated when he would stay around "masks", like the TV used to call them, people with powers and special abilities. Some were friends, like Uncle Reed and Aunt Sue, or Dr. Pym, or Ms. Marvel – Carol when she wasn't in her uniform. But most of them, those they knew only with their masks, were dangerous people, and not friends – at least mom told him so. He wasn't allowed near them, and mother was always telling him he shouldn't trust them, not even talk to them. _"There are bad people who wear masks, Stevie. Many of them. Even people that are called heroes… not all of them like us."_

He knew that. He knew his dad had many, many enemies.

_Your daddy is the villain, Steven. Remember that._

"Not true!"

Coming down the stairs in a hurry, he reached the main hall of the first floor: a large room with huge windows, providing a clear view of the city around it. On the left, a door that would lead to the place called meeting room, where Stevie had been only once since they moved back to the penthouse; dad had showed him the big panels he had hanged on the walls there, six feet photographs of the "old Avengers", that was how he called them. They were friends of his dad, he knew, but now they were all dead – even his best friend ever, the Captain America. There was another Captain America now, yes, but dad's friend had been the first one. _"And he was a really good man"_, dad had told him. _"Brave, strong. Saved my life many times. I named you Steven after him."_

The Voice hissed, full of anger and disdain:

_The old Cap was weak; that's why he's dead! _

"Shut up!"

Stevie didn't go to the meeting room, instead turning to his right, where a long corridor ended in a large, heavy ebony door. His dad's office.

The boy walked in the darkness, following the only source of light in the floor: insinuations of luminescence escaped from the office through the slightly open door. "Dad!", he thought with relief.

_That's right, Steven… Your beloved father. Go to him…!_

More laughs followed the statement, but the boy did his best to ignore it. Approaching the door, he placed a hand over the dark wood, and pushed it gently. "Dad?", he asked, looking around the room to locate his father. However, a feminine voice was the first answer he got; a surprised, displeased groan:

"Oh, hell…!"

It was a red-haired woman, her long tresses falling around her shoulder, and she used a hand to avoid it from covering her flushed face; she had green eyes, clear and with long eyelashes, and lips that were now covered with blotched lipstick. She wore a white blouse, which was unbuttoned and partially open, revealing most of her chest and breasts; her lower body wasn't visible, however. The woman was on one of the leather couches of the office, the one that had its back turned to the entrance, and she sat facing the door herself; in fact, she was actually facing this other person who seemed to be under her, whose hand had just lowered as it caressed her neck, whose dark hair the woman was grasping a second ago, and whose voice, to his own dread, Stevie knew too well:

"Please, tell me this is not happening…!", he muttered.

"Dad", the boy said in a whisper, needing nothing else to confirm his words.

* * *

Things were never supposed to go that way, but, never the less, they did.

And now…

To have Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, half naked on his lap was one of two things – either a surreal vision or a terrible nightmare. Not even an hour ago he was discussing with Natasha plans to a haste extraction of hostages in North Korean territory; and then, in just a few minutes, they were suddenly kissing passionately on the sofa. This was never planned… but did it matter? What's the point of trying to explain, justify himself when his judge was a seven years old child?

His own son?

He wished this to be one of those moments: when you see yourself unable to act, and the situation takes a direction by itself. Had it been anyone else at the door – Jarvis, Carol, Hill, even Maya! -, he would hear exclamations and see shocked faces, doors would be knocked, curses would be thrown at him. _Anyone, anyone else!_, he begged. Someone that would have a passionate, furious reaction, who would enter the room or just leave it, who would hate and condemn him immediately, who would…

Well, do anything other than stare in confusion, simply standing at the same place, asking for an explanation from him, the obvious villain, expecting console from the actual perpetrator of the crime.

"My God…", he mumbled through a long sigh, feeling completely incapable of turning to face the child he knew to be ten feet behind him, watching his every move with perplexed awareness. He felt capable, however, of looking up to his accomplice, and realized that, if considerably surprised, Natasha wasn't the least embarrassed or ashamed – if anything, she seemed amused, and she still had her intrigued glance focused ahead, apparently studying their unexpected visitor.

"I'm sorry kid…" Her tone was soft, but carried undeniable malice. "This show is for over 18 only."

Her words, and the sudden anger he felt by hearing them, caused Tony to lash out immediately:

"Shut up, Natasha…!" His voice was an infuriated sound, his disapproval showing in his tone and in the way he abruptly pushed her away from him, both hands on her naked hips, a quick, skillful movement that threw her on the sofa next to him, causing her to land clumsily and uncomfortably. She protested, an expression of deep displeasure on her face:

"Damn it, Tony! What the hell is wrong with you…?"

"This is my child!" He leaned forward to grab his paints and underwear and put them on in a single move; then, collected Natasha's clothes and tossed at her. "Get dressed", he said in a severe tone. "Now!"

She gave him a cold, ominous look, but silently obeyed.

At this point, however, Tony had completely left behind any interest or attention he once gave Natasha; now standing up and turning, he finally focused in what seem to be the actual issue:

"Stevie." The word came out of his lips in a smooth, gentle tone, and he walked in the boy's direction in unruffled steps.

His son watched him in observant silence, never making a move. Approaching the boy, Tony kneeled in front of him:

"Stevie?" Placing both hands around his son's face, he realized his skin was cold. "Son, are you okay?"

"I feel sick", the boy stated with simplicity, his voice grave and hoarse, his blue eyes gazing sternly at his father.

"_So do I"_, was Tony's thought, but he didn't share this with his son; instead, he nodded in agreement and pulled the boy closer to his chest. "Let's get you back in bed."

"I suppose this means we're done here, aren't we, Tony?" Natasha's voice was an unpleasant reminder that the situation wouldn't be solved in a simple way.

"Yes, we are. Done." Looking over his shoulder, he was more than a little upset when seeing she was taking her time to get dressed: calmly buttoning up her blouse, still not wearing any pants. He spoke in an exasperated tone:

"If you could hurry up, Natasha, it would be very nice…!" He took the boy into his arms and stood up. "Or, better yet, why don't you finish… _this_… in the bathroom?"

She laughed. "Oh, Tony…! You're so funny… Amusing." Still smiling, she glanced at him – her eyes, however, sparkled with cold despise. "Maybe _you_ should have been the one 'hurrying up', hm? Maybe _you_ should have finished _that_ in the bathroom…"

Tony felt a sudden heat taking his face, his jaw muscles tensioning as he clenched his teeth, his hands closing in fists: he felt that he could punch Natasha right now, and never regret it.

But he would regret it, he realized. That was a lose-lose situation, and, with his son there, in his arms, he knew that anything done to prolong this moment would just make everything worst. He merely said, in his most freezing, unfriendly tone:

"Get out of my house. Just put your clothes on and get out of my house."

"Yes, boss", she said, the triumphant grim in her lips telling him he hadn't seen the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Dad", Stevie called.

"I'm here, son."

"It's too dark."

"I'm right here, Stevie."

His father's warm hand touched his arm.

"You don't have to be afraid, son. I'm right here, next to your bed."

The boy silenced for a moment, turning his skinny body from one side to the other, searching for a comfortable position under the blanket. Then, he sighed: a tired, defeated sigh, too prolonged and deep for a child.

"Something wrong, Stevie?"

"No", he answered immediately.

"Sure?" The father lowered his hand to grab the boy's small fingers, feel his soft palm.

Cold. So cold.

"_This can't be right"_, Tony thought. He rose from his chair, and turned on the lamp on the boy's bedside. "You know what, Stevie?" He tried to sound calm and sure of himself, but he couldn't help his trembling voice when he saw Stevie's pale features, his front covered in sweat. "You know… we… should take your temperature, okay…? Just to be safe…"

The boy didn't answer; he merely turned his glance to the ceiling, and pulled up his blanket to cover himself almost to the chin.

"Okay", Tony said, alarmed to notice that Stevie's body shivered slightly. "Okay… thermometer. We need a thermometer."

Turning to search the drawers in Stevie's desk, he realized that never, in all the seven years of his son's life, he had taken his temperature. Not a single time – in fact, he had no idea if there even _was_ a thermometer in the penthouse. Truth to be told, he could simply put on his armor, and with a simple touch he would be able to tell the boy's temperature, but… there was something strange, even _wrong_ in that: another thing Iron Man would have to do, not Tony Stark.

The search, however, was looking like a vain effort. "Damn it! There's no thermometer…! I can't find a damn…"

"Dad." It was Stevie's faint voice, nothing but a whisper.

"What is it, son?" His voiced carried now all the preoccupation he felt heavy in his stomach, and he turned to see that Stevie had one of his arms hanging out of the bed, his index finger pointing at something.

"Bathroom. Thermometer…"

"Of course!" Tony ran to the bathroom and, sure enough, found a digital thermometer in the closet behind the mirror. "Here we go", he said while seating on Stevie's bed and placing the thermometer inside his mouth. "It shouldn't take long."

He counted the seconds; ninety or so of them seemed to have passed when the device emitted an unpleasant beep. Tony reached for the thermometer with anxiety, while Stevie kept his eyes closed, offering no resistance when his father pulled it out from his mouth in a hurry and checked the small panel.

"A hundred and five?!?" Tony sounded shocked, though he felt he was, actually, starting to panic. "No, no… this can't be right…!"

But it was right. He knew perfectly well it was right.

"_What should I do?!?_", he caught himself thinking. He had no idea of what to do, and his impulse was to just call for his armor and take it from there. It would at least help him think… "_No!_", he reprehended himself. "_No, this is not for Iron Man to solve…_" Parents all around the world dealt with similar situations, and not many of them were super heroes. _Maya_ wasn't a superhero, and she always handled things like that well…

He looked at Stevie, the boy lying quietly on his bed, his breathing heavy and accelerated. Eyes closed. "_My god, has he passed out…?"_ High fever could be very serious, he knew that. Children could die from that, or have brain damage, or… or…

"Okay", he said. "I give up."


End file.
